You slide onto his lap mid-flight like it’s nothing, like the controls aren’t blinking right in front of him, like your hips settling against his thighs isn’t the single most distracting thing that’s happened all week.
For a moment, he’s quiet.
Dead silent.
His hands stay locked on the yoke, tension bleeding up his arms and into his shoulders.
Then—
His arm curls around your waist, solid and possessive, pulling you in just a little tighter.
His voice drops low behind the modulator, a dangerous kind of rough:
“Cyar’ika…”
The word slides out like a warning and a prayer all in one — tender and wrecked and reverent.
And soaked in restraint.
“You trying to get us both killed?”
You grin, all innocent. “Just wanted to sit somewhere comfortable.”
He exhales hard, a growl half-hidden in the helmet.
“You’re not helping.”
Another shift of your hips, this time completely intentional — and he feels it. Hears your breath hitch. His grip tightens. You don’t even have to see his face to know he’s biting down hard behind the helmet.
Then, softer now. A whisper:
“Keep this up, cyar’ika… and I won’t wait ‘til we land.”
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Poll Winner - SickFic /Yearning - Reader x McKay at 105 votes !
Warnings : Burnout / Worried Cassie / Jealous Cassie / Baran Flirting / Protective Dana / Sexual Tension / Cassie Overprotective / Possessive Kink / Yearning / Love Confessions in Actions / Temp / Sick Reader / Forgetting to Take Care of Yourself / Hospital Beds / Juice and Snacks / Love / Hurt & Comfort / No beta we die like computers in season 2/ 3.9 k Words / 18 +
“Get you hands off me, oh my god why are your fingers so cold? Your hands are usually warm! Stop it!” You bat at Cassie’s hands as she tries to get your temp. You had been practically lifted off your feet to get into the room in the first place. You had a shift in five minutes, and your friendly doctor McKay wasn’t letting you out until you had a clean bill of health. Her hands had already reached out to do the forehead and gentle hand temp check, and you were burning up.
“Behave, don’t make me use the rectal thermometer, doctor.” The older, gorgeous doctor threatened, and she meant it. You were behaving worse than her son when he was ill. Harrison had texted his mother, warning her of your sick status. While Cassie had been worried, seeing you like that had her full blown over protective crazy mama vibes.
“It’s just a case of the spring flu,” you reason but your pushed back onto the bed. You don’t have the strength to fight her, had she been working out?
The hospital lights offend you, making you squint up at the doctors form. Cassie takes your glasses off your nose and pockets them. You try to get them back but she’s faster, mad mom skills and all.
“Maybe, but I gave you your flu shot, though so I’m going to be thorough,” McKay tells you moving her stethoscope as Dana comes in with her little lamb. Emma's smile falters when she sees how pale you look.
“No, I don’t want to be a teaching hospital today.” You say rudely, and Dana narrows her eyes at you.
“Don’t listen to her, Doctors make the absolute worst patients. But as grumpy as she appears, she’s my favorite. So that’s why I came in to torture her.” Dana says, and Cassie squirms a little. And the charge nurse notices immediately.
“Dr. McKay?” Her eyebrows go up expecting.
You have such a high fever that you don’t understand or care about their silent argument.
“I’ve got this, I think Robbie’s got a trauma comin' in.” She eyes the new nurse like that will be better for her. A nice bloody case for Emma. Not you, not while Cassie had you. No extra hands required.
“Dr. McKay, is there a chart made up for our patient?” Dana makes her point clear, but Cassie still isn’t happy. The gentle threat doesn’t reach your tired frame. But to the other three women, it’s clear; If a chart is made, it’s not a personal call anymore.
If anything, Dana could get Cassie off the case for her ‘personal feelings,’ but the nurse is more poking the soft butch to see how much of an ass she’s going to be.
“No,” you say just as the older doctor cringes and nods.
“Yes,” Cassie says on top of you. Her braid falling over her shoulder as her dark scrubs can’t hide the way her body tenses.
“Okay, let’s do some labs and see what color mucus you got kiddo,” Dana tells you and grabs the blanket, pulling it across your lap.
Your eyes drift, you can help it.
“I have rounds.” You say with your eyes already closed.
“You may present your own case if you would like,” Al-Hashimi states coming in and pressing her ID down on the scanner to see your chart. Ignoring the rest of the room to find out what ails you.
Cassie hates this even more than Dana, way more.
“I’ve got this covered, really, just some routine tests.” Doctor McKay is being possessive, and Al-Hashimi doesn’t back down.
They’d been doing this for the past five months, and it was getting to be a game of whose strap was bigger.
Dana was over it, but you were ignorant to the butch brawl.
Emma makes a scared face as her attention goes back and forth to the two women fighting about your chart. Even Dana waits on this one.
The children would get tired eventually, or she’d need to get a kiddie pool with mud for the two to work it out.
Dana had her bets on Cassie, not because of the ankle monitor or the rough history. But not, not because of the ankle monitor, McKay just had this love for you. That the charge nurse was sure wouldn’t blow over anytime soon.
Baran is the queen of passive-aggressive in these situations, though, and she easily calls ranks.
“Then we’ll make sure to put a rush on them and find out, Dr. McKay, may I speak to you in the hall?” The senior attending requests even though it’s not a question.
Cassie makes sure to leave with your glasses in her pocket; you wouldn’t be driving without them.
“Of course Dcotor Al-Hashimi,” she says through her teeth.
The two leave, and you miss how Cassie’s eyes linger in your shivering frame.
Dana ignores the fight in the hall and instead squeezes your knee comfortingly.
Voices raising and falling outside don’t matter; you did.
Dana nods at Emma towards the computer, knowing she’d have better chance at bullying you into submission then the sweet young nurse.
You yawn, and try to get warmer in the blankets. Sweat drips down your forehead and you really wish you had stayed home; the light was too much for your headache.
Dana wipes at your forehead with her palm; it’s less medical and far closer to an intimate gesture.
“So tired, Dana…” you whisper, and she smiles comfortingly at you. You were too cute to even the charge nurse like this, all docile and needy.
“I know, kid, so no more bad patient, okay? Emma here is gonna get you a second warm blanket and I’m gonna get some fluids in you. Starting of course, with your temp, now are you gonna behave or do I need to put you over my knee like my kids?” She says, and you don’t have the energy to fight her. Though you can see how she would totally spank you.
“Apple juice? you squeak in question and even Emma can’t help but smile at how cute you are. The normally smart doctor that she was intimidated by was getting tucked in by the charge nurse and asking for juice.
“As much as you want, you just gotta let me take your temp.” Dana agrees, trying not to smile too openly at how adorable you were. No wonder the two gay ladies in the hall were arguing over your chart.
Your eyes lull closed and Dana takes it as a warning, grabbing the thermometer for under your tongue.
“How long you been feelin this way, kiddo?” She says low in her ‘mama bear’ sorta way. It works on you every time. You fold like a melted string cheese under just a little maternal push.
“I took Harrison to this new exhibit.” You shiver, and the thermometer beeps and is pulled from your lips.
Emma types in your chart once she sees the high number.
“Who’s Harrison?” Emma asks, being a little nosey. Thinking that it’s your boyfriend. Kids these days, she’s probably thinking he’s 5’9 in finance. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dana chuckles at her very wrong idea.
“Harrison is Dr. McKay's little boy, he’s smarter than many of the doctors on this floor and cuter than a button,” Dana informs Emma, and now you smile big.
Yeah that was a good way to describe him.
“He’s adorable and knows he’s got me wrapped around his finger. How else would I start playing the Nintendo Switch on my weekends?” You say and your teeth chatter from your temp.
“You saw the exhibit, you worked 3 shifts and you’ve been having a headache, haven’t you?” Dana asks but starts an IV. You don’t even twitch as the needle goes into your vein.
“Who squealed?” You open one eye to glare.
Dana hid her laugh at the absurdity of the question.
“You got family here, family talks.” Dana dismissed you but you still gave her a dirty gaze. It’s not scary in the least.
“You have spies.” Your throat is raw, and you sound like Johnny Cash after smoking a pack.
But the two nurses don’t tease you, too low-hanging fruit. Besides, Dana has worked hard to be someone you trusted, and it wasn’t her style to tease you while you're half unconscious.
“Everywhere.” Dana agrees just as the two doctors re-enter.
Both are looking equally unhappy.
“Temp?” Al-Hashimi asks and Dana lets Emma answer. She’s squeezing the IV bag, and watching you try and pull the covers up incredibly higher. Your scrubs sticking to your skin like wet newspaper. It’s rough and unkind and you want to sleep.
“103.4,” her gentle voice is kind but you groan and yank the blanket over your head all the way.
“Does Harrison have it too?” Emma asks and misreads the room. This wasn’t a discussion. Everyone looks at her and then Cassie.
“Excuse me?” The doctor doesn’t like that one bit.
“Why would her son have it?” Al-Hashimi asks, but her tone is off.
“He didn’t put on the astronaut helmet with the zillion children coughing in it, so no.” You say, and your voice gives out halfway.
“Rest your voice,” Cassie instructs harshly and then eyes Emma with a new fire.
“Either way, let’s just rule everything else out.”
“Baran!” You try to shout and her lips curl at you using her first name. Just as Cassie’s grinding her jaw.
“Healthy Doctors on my floor. Only healthy Doctors. Get some rest, Khvaab-e-shirin.” Baran reminds you and squeezes your blanket covered foot.
The anger in Cassie’s features are hot enough they could light her fingers on fire.
But then the senior attending is out of the room again.
“Stop it,” the head nurse snaps at Cassie. “Get that look off your face.”
She says, waiving her pointer in a tiny circle.
“What?” Cassie pushes back rudely, only to get a threatening stare in return.
“I warned our patient I’d take her over my knee, you want to go first?” The motherly threatening is enough that Cassie tries to bounce back.
“Blood draw, and a Covid test. Do strep too.” Cassie lists and Dana actually pulls back, looking offended. Like what was this her first day or something?
“Oh, and then what?” The nurse delivers sarcastically but Emma is typing rapidly on your chart.
“Not you too, please.” Cassie winces after getting the riot act with Doctor Al Hashimi. A very uncomfortable back and forth where the two argued but also danced around the real issue. Baran wanted you and so did Cassie and neither wanted to work in the same shift while yearning over you.
The blonde can’t believe this clear rudeness.
“Hey, I’m bisexual too. You gonna fight every gay on rotation or just the ones in your weight class?” Dana arches an eyebrow, and Cassie’s eyes zone in on you to see if you're paying attention. Luckily you were out.
You look like Harrison when he sleeps. Mouth open, little snores, body curled like a bug in a rug. Cuddling nothing but fabric, how Cassie wanted to crawl into that bed and hold you tight.
Hold a cold cloth on your forehead and rub your lower back over and over. Hypnotic and consistent, watching over your sleeping form to keep you safe.
Kiss your nose and soothe any bad dreams.
Cassie McKay wanted the honor of being the person you snuggled against.
Today and every night, never letting you get cold again. Feet pressed against her own under comforter and silent nights.
“Please Dana, I just…” Cassie is trying really she is, but she’s already raw. Already holding back from fighting with Baran.
So the nurse's shoulders drop a little, no longer wanting to make her point.
She raises her hands up to stop McKay from trying to say another word.
“You started the chart, you finish the chart. Emma and I will keep an eye on Sleeping Beauty. Go do rotations, by the time you're done with our first few happy customers, the labs will be back. You can’t do anything for her now anyway.” Dana says, gently reaching out to squeeze Cassie’s bicep and it helps.
Lord she needed a raise.
“Why did I fall for the cute one everyone wants?” Cassie asks, and Emma tries not to grin at how adorably in love Dr. McKay is.
Dana shakes her head, but makes her way for the door. Pushing the doctor as well.
“Listen, your girl didn’t get sick while on a date with Al Hashimi. Let’s remember who she spends every weekend with. Now stop marking your territory and scram.” Dana says, opening the door and walking the worried Butch out.
It’s hours later when you wake up. Sorta disoriented, you get anxious and jerk from the bed.
Strange fever dreams causing a cold sweat, you gasp in despair.
“Hey, hey, hey, easy, it’s me,” Cassie shushes and in the dim light you blink wearily at her.
“Cass? Cassie that you?” You croak, voice something in between.
“Yeah, I’m here. It’s okay sweetie, I turned off the lights so you could sleep better. Here,” she puts your glasses on your face and now you can make her form out better.
It soothes you and you fall back flat on the bed. Knowing she’s around always makes you feel better.
“Am I dead?” You ask, with the IV in your arm and Cassie working on your chart.
“Not funny.” She says dryly.
“Sorta funny,” you challenge, only to see Cassie looking down, right concerned.
“You should have told me you were feeling sick.” She sighs, disappointed that somehow she missed this. You're burning out right in front of her.
Cassie was always on you to drink water, to sleep, feeding you when you forgot. Packing extra lunches and extra coffee.
So how had the doctor so missed this?
The answer was clear, because you hid it from her. That’s what really made Cassie sick to her stomach.
“I could have worked my shift.” You insist. Anxious that you’d caused a fuss, a call out, you dropped the ball. Made work harder for the team.
“Your temp spiked, you were delirious and dehydrated.” Cassie’s tone is getting more clipped, more tense, it’s building.
In the dark you can see her worry is all consuming.
“Cassie, I just-”
“You just weren’t taking care of yourself!” She shouts and you flinch from her words and then you see her eyes shut as she tries to breathe and calm down. Not wanting to shout at you. Her temper flaring because she’s scared.
“Hey, I’m alright. I just needed some fluids and and-” You start but Cassie wipes at her face and you wonder if you’ve broken something in her.
“You, make everyone else a priority. You can’t burn out like this, your important. Not just a doctor but…Damn it.” Cassie chews on her bottom lip trying so hard to figure out how to do this.
“I didn’t want to worry you.” Your voice cracks and your head is pounding.
“That’s what’s got me worried.” Cassie lets out a self deprecating sound and whispers at her feet.
“Cassie, it’s just the flu.” You say gently but Doctor McKay isn’t able to let it go.
“I need you to take care of yourself, do you understand? You matter. I need you….” Cassie is opening her mouth and she can’t say the rest because that sentence really sums it all up.
Cassie McKay needs you.
“Your mad I didn’t tell you.” You say now, thinking of how you’d evaded her.
Her head falls before she lifts it and tries to calmly discuss this.
“I can’t take care of you if you won’t let me.” Her voice cracks and you reach out, it doesn’t take your fellow doctor more than a second to grab your hand back.
“You have enough to worry-” You try but it makes the older woman huff and cut you off.
“No, no, you don’t get to decide. That’s not how this works.” Cassie insists and you sniffle and she can’t stay mad at you when your sick and out of it.
So you two just hold hands and stare at one another.
“I don’t wanna get you sick.” You whisper, voice straining and Cassie leans forward and pulls wet strand of your hair back off your face.
“I’ll take my chances.” She says gently with love in her eyes.
“Harrison told me it probably had more germs then chucky cheese ball pit and I still put it on. I wanted to be an astronaut.” You say in hushed tones and Cassie can’t help but snort at that.
“What am I gonna do with you,” Cassie keeps playing with your hair and holding your hand.
“Let me win mario cart once in a while?” You try with big pleading eyes. It wasn’t fair that she could beat you and Harrison.
“Not a chance, that’s my street cred.” The older woman says and you giggle then wince in pain.
“I brought you apple juice and applesauce, and I even snagged a donut. But you have to take the tylenol. Or I’m withholding the sprinkles.” She’s got a bunch of goodies on the tray.
“You are cruel.” You say back and Cassie nods like she’s tough shit.
“You know it,” The doctor helps you sit up, propping the bed and pillows until your up.
“I feel like death.” You say in pain.
“Now she tells me,” Cassie lays it on thick and you try to be grumpy about it. But you want that pink sprinkled donut dang it.
“If this is the end, I just want you to know-”
Now Cassie’s not having any of it. She shakes the pill cup.
“Don’t even, jokes about your death will not get me to share sugar.” The older doctor warns.
“I see the light,” you push but take the pills and Cassie opens the apple juice and you take a swig.
“Last warning,” Cassie informs lifting the donut and taking a bite herself.
Your eyes widen, in despair - how could she be so mean.
“I thought you swore to do no harm.” You stick out your bottom lip.
“Dana said she’d spank you if you were bad, what do you think I’d do?” Cassie actually flirts and you lose your ability to speak at the idea.
Dirty dirty thoughts, fuck what a sight.
“That’s what I thought, be good. I’m taking you home after my shift,” she checks her wrist watch. “So in exactly four more hours, so if you can not develop any new illnesses between then and now I’ll even let you pick dinner.”
You don’t get to say anything else, but Cassie sets the rest of the donut onto a napkin and moves the tray over your hospital bed.
“I’m still trying to decide if I want to be good or not,” you flirt but you aren’t joking. You don’t know if you can blame it on the temperature.
Cassie gives you a long look before leaning over your body and kissing your forehead.
You can’t help but close your eyes and feel more loved from such a tiny peck than you had your whole life.
Cassie lingers too long to be considered friendly, before leaning back and eyeing you. Your flushed from the temperature, that’s what she tells herself.
“You’re already in the dog house. Now no more death jokes, close your eyes. Good dreams only, and drink your juice.”
“I want Chinese.” You say, but your heart is doing summersalts in your chest. You don’t want her to go.
“Behave.” Cassie says one last time before moving towards the door.
“Can I have another kiss if I promise to?” You for sure can’t blame it on the temperature now.
But Cassie also couldn’t resist such a request. She moves back to your bed and goes for your forehead but just as you close your eyes to enjoy it again.
She moves down and pecks your lips.
You must look like a cartoon because when you open your eyes she’s smiling at your lovestruck look.
Your grin is so big it actually hurts your cheeks.
“Four whole hours?” You ask needy and revel in how much Cassie seems to like you like this.
“Two hundred and fourty minutes,” Cassie agrees but in the dark now you think you can see her own blush.
“Do you have to go?” It’s desperate but real.
“Dana already is grumbling because I came in here every twenty minutes while you were sleeping. I think if I stay any longer she’ll send Al-Hashimi in and put me on AI charts all night.”
“Baran’s nice!” You argue and your voice cracks. Cassie grabs your juice and makes you take a sip but she’s already disagreeing.
“Hey, don’t forget who’s got your chart.” Cassie threatens and you wonder why the two doctors don’t get along.
You frown and give a little pout.
“You sure you want to take me home? I’m overly needy when I don’t feel good, I know this, and it’s gross.” You say but Cassie shakes her head.
“I like you like this.” She admits afraid of how you’ll react.
“Bedridden, waiting for the end.” You tease again and Cassie grabs your donut and holds it up.
“I warned you.” Cassie’s got this look that you can’t place.
“Not the donut! Anything but the donut.” You shout playfully and move your hand to try to take it.
“Can you be a good girl?” The older doctor asks and you can’t explain the full body reaction you have.
Except that you were sick and maybe subspace was easier to reach like this….or maybe it was all Cassie McKay.
But you sink and the butch see’s it immediately. Tilting her head to the side she sets the donut back down and cups your cheek. Swallowing the sugar and wondering what you taste like.
“Can you be my good girl?” Cassie asks now, and she needs you to say it. Needs it to be true.
Your lip trembles just a bit, but the hold on your face has you feeling so cherished that you get choked up.
You nod once.
And Cassie likes that, she likes that more than anything.
“Good, eat, drink, sleep. Fourteen thousand four hundred seconds, then your butt is being released. And you can get as much sweet and sour soup as you want. Okay?” McKay says more to herself than to you, she’s never been more excited to get off shift.
You nod again and grin, and Cassie doesn’t want to leave you but she’s got to.
“You okay here?” She asks, but she’s stalling.
You nod again, then Cassie’s taking off your glasses and putting them back in her pocket.
You two stare at each other with more feelings than you can take, it’s bursting out of your chest. But she’s walking backwards to the door.
Hesitating, not touching the doorknob.
Almost like she’s afraid if she leaves maybe you’ll change your mind, or maybe this was all too good to be true.
“1.44e+7” You whisper and she looks confused for a second before realizing you are doing the math for the milliseconds.
She points to the applejuice and you grab it again and drink.
“My good girl.”
Take care of yourself
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And you definitely didn’t mean to save a strange little girl in the woods, or earn the interest of a cold, impossibly powerful daiyōkai with a sharp tongue and a sharper sword. But fate doesn’t ask for permission.
Now, you’re stuck in feudal Japan. Sarcastic, stubborn, and somehow always managing to catch Sesshōmaru’s attention (and occasionally his temper). What starts as begrudging tolerance slowly turns into something neither of you dare to name: stolen glances, heated arguments, near-deaths, and quiet nights under the stars. You challenge him. He unsettles you. But when you're kidnapped and nearly forced into marriage, it’s Sesshōmaru who tears the world apart to find you.
Words: 10968
Your cheek throbbed.
So did your ribs, your wrists, and somehow even your pride.
You sat slumped against the cold stone wall of what looked like a ceremonial dressing room, your hands still tied at the wrists with coarse rope. The skin beneath the bindings had long since turned raw. A beautiful kimono hung nearby, pale silk embroidered with lilies and cranes — meant for a wedding.
Your wedding.
To a man you hadn’t so much as looked at before he ordered his soldiers to drag you from a roadside village. Apparently, being “the demon lord’s woman” made you either a useful bargaining tool or a tempting prize. You hadn’t yet decided which option insulted you more.
You let your head fall back against the wall and exhaled slowly through your nose, jaw tight.
“Great,” you muttered to the empty room, voice thick with dry sarcasm. “This is exactly how I pictured dying in feudal Japan. Not in battle. Not defending a small child or saving the world. Nope. Forced marriage and bruised ribs. Classic.”
The high walls didn’t answer, but your words echoed faintly off the polished wood. No reply. No sympathy. Just the weight of your own bitter humor in a room dressed like a coffin.
You shifted your legs beneath you, and pain flared along your side. It was deep and hot. You winced, teeth clenching. That had to be cracked. Or at least spectacularly bruised.
“Okay,” you whispered, “so maybe taunting the guy who ordered me chained up wasn’t the smartest move.”
But seriously — what did they expect you to do? Flutter your lashes? Swoon? Cry?
Please.
You handled fear the way you always had with biting sarcasm and bad timing. It was the only armor you’d ever really known. Even now, aching and trapped and furious. Your mouth was the one thing they hadn’t managed to tie up.
Still, the silence pressed in like a weight on your chest, growing heavier with every heartbeat.
Your eyes drifted closed for a moment. You tried — really tried not to think about Sesshōmaru. About whether he knew. Whether he was already searching. Whether he was angry.
Whether he was worried.
No. Don’t go there. You couldn’t afford to go soft now. Not when this entire situation was balancing on a razor’s edge.
But the thought still slipped in anyway:
What if he’s too late?
You didn’t want to believe it, but—
The door creaked.
Your body stiffened instantly, instincts sparking to life. Footsteps, heavy and slow, crossed the wooden threshold. One of the guards—tall, broad, and utterly unpleasant stepped into view. He was holding a bowl of food like it offended him. He tossed it near your feet, some of the rice scattering across the floor like ashes.
“Eat,” he grunted.
You looked up at him, your face bruised but your pride very much intact. Then, with the best sweet smile you could muster through a split lip, you tilted your head.
“Can you feed me?” you asked innocently. “My wrists are a bit… occupied.”
The man glared, unmoved. His nostrils flared slightly—disgust, maybe. Or anger. He muttered something under his breath as he turned, but you caught it anyway.
“…arrogant women… demon filth…”
The door snapped shut behind him.
You sat still for a moment, letting the silence settle once more. Then you exhaled, slow and tired, and leaned your head back against the wall again.
“Honestly,” you said to the ceiling, “where’s a murderously possessive daiyōkai when you need one?”
The silence didn’t answer you.
But far from here, past forests and rivers —Sesshōmaru had already stopped moving.
He had caught your scent.
Blood.
Rope.
Fear.
And someone, somewhere, was about to regret laying even a single hand on you.
You were just walking. Walking and complaining about how damp the forest was. How you’d definitely wandered off the main road and how—once again — you had absolutely no idea how you’d time-traveled into feudal Japan in the first place.
You were about two seconds from yelling at the sky when you heard it.
A scream.
High-pitched. Terrified. Child.
You froze. That was… not background forest noise.
Another scream. This time followed by snarling.
You didn’t hesitate.
You bolted in the direction of the noise, heart pounding, shoving branches out of your way. The underbrush snagged your clothes, mud squelched under your shoes, and you had absolutely no plan other than Run faster.
You burst into a small clearing—and chaos.
A girl no older than ten was backed up against a tree, clutching a bundle of herbs to her chest. Two boar demons—huge, ugly things with tusks longer than your arms—snorted and pawed at the earth in front of her.
You didn’t even think.
You did the dumbest thing imaginable.
You picked up a rock.
“HEY!” you screamed, hurling it with all the fury of someone who’d had a very weird week.
It smacked one of the demons square in the face.
Everything stopped.
Including your common sense.
The boar demon slowly turned its head toward you. The girl gasped.
You blinked.
“Oh god,” you whispered. “Oh no. I am so stupid.”
The demon roared and charged.
You stood frozen, heart in your throat. You didn’t even have time to scream.
Then—shhk.
Something sliced through the air. A blur of white. The demon’s head hit the ground with a wet thud, still mid-snarl.
You blinked again.
The second demon didn’t even try to run. It barely managed a squeal before it was sliced in half by a glowing blade.
And suddenly, the clearing was still.
You were breathing hard, eyes widend from shock. Meanwhile your arm still half-lifted from throwing the rock.
Standing in front of the child now was a tall figure draped in silver and white. He wasn’t human. You didn’t need a history degree to tell that.
Armor gleamed on his shoulders. Silver hair tumbled down his back like it didn’t know what gravity was. His face was... unreal. Beautiful and cold and somehow worse than monstrous because he didn’t look like a monster.
He looked like something ancient and bored and very used to people dying when he walked into a room.
Your brain clicked into panic mode.
You blurted out the only thing that came to mind:
“Who the hell wears armor this dramatic just to walk in the woods?”
A beat of silence.
His head turned slightly toward you. He hadn’t even looked at you until now.
His eyes: golden, inhuman dragged over you from head to toe.
You swallowed.
“...Okay, yeah, that was maybe not the smartest opener,” you muttered.
He took one step toward you.
You instinctively stepped back, raising your hands like that would do anything. “Look, I don’t know what kind of forest fashion police you are, but I didn’t mean to interrupt your murder party, okay?”
The little girl peeked out from behind him and gave you a wide-eyed look. “You saved me.”
You waved awkwardly. “Uh. Kinda. I mean, technically he did, I just threw a rock.”
Another pause.
The man—not a man, something else stared at you with the expression of someone deciding whether you were an insect or just something very dumb.
“You are human,” he said at last. His voice was cool and absolutely judgmental.
You raised an eyebrow. “And you’re observant. Great. Should we both say the obvious out loud or...?”
The girl giggled quietly. He didn’t react.
Then, without a word, he turned away from you and walked off into the mist, the girl trailing at his heels.
You stood there for a few seconds: stunned.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “Well. That happened.”
The girl looked back once as they disappeared into the trees. She waved.
You waved back, still in a daze.
What the hell just happened?
You had no idea who that was. Just some random hot, terrifying murder elf with a sword made of glowing vengeance.
Back in the present — tied up, bruised, and waiting for someone to rescue you. You remember that day, and you almost laugh.
Almost.
You never did figure out who he was that day in the forest.
Just some icy, terrifying, ridiculously beautiful warrior with murder in his eyes and grace in his sword. You hadn’t known his name. Not yet. Only that he hadn’t killed you, even though he probably could have with a blink.
But later…
Later, you’d find out.
You’d hear it whispered in passing from villagers. You’d feel it when his eyes found yours across a battlefield. And then, eventually, you’d ask him outright.
“What’s your name, anyway?”
And in that deadpan, regal voice, he’d say:
“Sesshōmaru.”
You’d stared. “...Okay, but like, do you have a shorter version? A nickname? A syllable I can yell when you’re being impossible?”
He’d blinked at you. “No.”
So, of course, you’d started calling him “Sessh.”
(He hated it.)
Later, when the sarcasm turned into banter, and banter into tension, and tension into something else, you’d sometimes circle back to that first meeting.
“You were foolish,” he’d say.
“You were dramatic,” you’d counter.
And somehow, that became the beginning of everything.
Now, though?
Now your cheek was swollen. Your ribs ached with every breath. You were bound in a ceremonial room like some fragile gift wrapped for slaughter.
And Sesshōmaru wasn’t here.
Yet.
You closed your eyes, trying to shut out the pain. Trying not to think about the dull ache blooming in your chest — fear. The fear that maybe this time, you’d pushed your luck too far.
You’d always made enemies. You were sarcastic, loud, modern. You didn’t bow. You didn’t grovel. You made comments.
So when some petty, power-drunk warlord found out that the cold-hearted Lord of the West had a human consort, what did he do?
He took you.
Leverage.
A bargaining chip.
Or a way to die painfully, depending on the response.
You weren’t sure which you were more worried about.
Because if Sesshōmaru came, he wouldn’t talk.
He would destroy.
You shifted, the ropes biting into your skin. Your body was exhausted, but your mind kept spinning, fast and sharp.
You remembered, vividly, the second conversation you’d ever had with him.
The mist hung thick in the forest, every step muffled by fallen leaves and damp earth. You moved cautiously, senses on edge. Not just because of the unknown dangers, but because of who you might run into.
And sure enough, there he was.
Sesshōmaru.
Tall, silent, and just as cold as before. His silver hair catching the pale light filtering through the trees.
You squared your shoulders and met his golden gaze with your own.
“You again,” you said, voice a mix of sarcasm and tired resolve. “You’re really making this whole feudal Japan thing a nightmare.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Your presence here disrupts the natural order.”
“And what, you want me to just disappear? Sorry, but I’m trying to find a way back to my time.”
Sesshōmaru’s gaze flickered with interest, though his face remained impassive.
“You seek to undo your intrusion?”
“Exactly. I’m not some lost damsel waiting for rescue,” you said, crossing your arms. “I’m here for a reason. And until I figure it out, I’m not just going to roll over and accept whatever fate you demons have planned.”
A faint smile—almost imperceptible—touched his lips.
“Your determination is... unexpected.”
You smirked.
“Don’t get used to it.”
He stepped closer, the air around him growing colder, but you didn’t back down.
“Tell me,” he said, voice low, “will your purpose keep you alive? Or will it lead you to ruin?”
You met his challenge head-on.
“Maybe a little of both.”
Sesshōmaru’s eyes lingered on you, as if weighing your soul.
“Foolishness and bravery often walk the same path.”
You shrugged, defiant.
“Good thing I’m not afraid to walk alone.”
For a long moment, the forest was still except for your breathing.
Then, as if breaking a spell, Sesshōmaru turned, stepping back into the mist.
The silk kimono rested heavily in your lap, its smooth fabric almost too delicate to touch given your battered, bruised body. Pale cream silk embroidered with delicate lilies and cranes, the kind of beauty reserved for weddings. And here you were, trapped in this room, forced into the role of bride for a man you barely knew.
Two women, stern and efficient, moved around you with practiced hands. Their faces were tight with duty and impatience, their fingers rough as they tugged and pulled at the layers of fabric.
“Soon, you will be the bride,” one of them said sharply, tightening the obi around your waist with a precise, almost ruthless grip.
You fought the urge to retort, to tell them exactly where they could shove their wedding plans. But your wrists, still raw from the ropes, ached sharply, and every breath you took was a reminder of how fragile your situation truly was.
The second woman, colder than the first, brushed your hair back with an expert but unfeeling touch, twisting it into a neat bun.
“Do not resist,” she warned, her voice low and sharp as a blade. “Your lord’s patience wears thin.”
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, fighting to steady your breathing. The faint scent of incense and polished wood filled the room, an eerie contrast to the knot of dread tightening your chest.
And then, something in the way the woman said “lord”—and “patience”—cut through the haze of pain and fear like a shard of ice.
Your breath caught. That word — patience — it triggered something buried deep in your mind.
You found yourself sitting beside Sesshōmaru beneath the vast, fading sky. The first stars timidly pierced the twilight, their soft glow flickering through the thick canopy of ancient trees. Around you, the forest held its breath. The rustling of leaves whispered and the cool air smelled faintly of moss and earth.
Sesshōmaru’s presence was beside you. Silent and commanding, like the very mountain itself. The faint gleam of his silver hair caught the last light of day, and his golden eyes, normally sharp and distant, were fixed thoughtfully on the horizon.
You shifted slightly, nerves stirring but curiosity stronger. After a long moment, you finally dared to break the silence.
“Sesshōmaru,” you began, your voice careful, tentative, “have you ever… truly loved someone?”
His eyes flicked to you, calm but unreadable, like a still lake hiding untold depths.
“Loved?” he repeated, voice low and deliberate as if weighing the word carefully. “Love is a complicated thing.”
You smiled softly, wanting to coax more from him, gently pushing the fragile door open.
“I mean… someone you trust with your life. Someone whose happiness matters more than your own. Have you ever felt that?”
Sesshōmaru’s gaze darkened briefly — just for a heartbeat — before his usual composed mask returned.
“If I found my mate,” he said quietly, “I would marry her. Not lightly, but with full intent and unwavering commitment.”
The weight behind his words surprised you. His voice was steady, but beneath it lingered a rare vulnerability that softened his usual cold demeanor.
You blinked, heart fluttering with a mix of awe and something warmer. “And what… what does marriage mean to you?”
He turned fully to you now, eyes locking with yours, fierce and sincere.
“It is a pact,” Sesshōmaru said slowly, “a declaration of what is sacred. When I speak of marriage, I speak of a binding—one forged with intent, sealed by honor, and meant to last forever.”
You let those words sink in, studying the sharp angles of his face. The hard lines shaped by centuries of solitude and battle. But in this quiet moment, you saw something new: the softening of his jaw, the faint flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.
“And… what if that pact was between us?” Your voice barely escaped your lips, trembling slightly with hope and uncertainty.
His gaze sharpened instantly, unwavering and intense. The gold of his eyes burned bright in the dim light.
“If you are mine,” Sesshōmaru said, his voice lowering with solemn weight, “I will honor you above all else. There will be no other.”
He paused, the gravity of his vow hanging between you like an unbreakable chain.
“To marry is to stake my life’s purpose upon yours. It is not a decision made lightly.”
The silence deepened, filled only by the quiet chorus of the forest settling into night. You swallowed hard, the promise settling in your chest like a beating heart—powerful, terrifying, but utterly real.
You stayed silent for a moment, letting his words wash over you. The night seemed to grow heavier, filled with unspoken feelings.
“I never thought someone like you would… say something like that,” you finally whispered, surprised by the softness in your own voice.
Sesshōmaru’s gaze didn’t waver. “Few see beyond the surface.”
You glanced away, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the weight of the conversation. “Maybe I’m not like most people.”
He gave a rare, slight nod—acknowledgment without words.
“What happens if you never find your mate?” you asked, daring to break the silence again.
His eyes darkened just a fraction. “Then I remain alone. But I do not seek just anyone. The bond must be worthy of the vow.”
You frowned slightly, feeling that you only grasped part of what he meant.
“But how do you actually know?” you asked, voice soft but curious. “I mean, is there some… sign? Something you notice that makes it clear? Like a smell or a feeling? Or maybe something only demons can sense?”
Sesshōmaru’s golden eyes darkened as he considered your question. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly shifted his gaze upward toward the deepening night sky, where stars began to sprinkle the heavens like scattered jewels.
You followed his eyes, your own softening as you watched the quiet beauty above.
After a long pause, Sesshōmaru’s voice broke the silence.
“There are many signs,” he said thoughtfully, “a scent that clings to your mind long after the presence has passed… a quiet strength in someone that steadies even the fiercest storms within your soul… a pull you cannot ignore, no matter how far you try to run.”
You looked back at him, searching for more—hoping for something clearer, something you could understand.
He met your gaze then, his expression unreadable, but the intensity of his eyes seemed to carry more than words.
You felt your breath catch. There was something in the way he looked at you now, a flicker of something unspoken. He didn’t say he’d found those signs in you, but the way his eyes held yours, steady and unwavering, made your heart pound in a way you couldn’t quite explain.
For a moment, the world around you slipped away. The whisper of the trees, the distant call of a night bird, even the cool brush of the wind seemed to hush in reverence to the quiet connection blooming between you.
Sesshōmaru’s gaze stayed, intense and enigmatic before he slowly turned away. His face settling back into that familiar mask of calm indifference.
But the air still hummed with something neither of you dared name yet.
The silence stretched between you, thick and alive, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. You felt the weight of Sesshōmaru’s gaze lingering on you again. Not with judgment, but with something far more complex, something raw and unguarded that few had ever seen.
Your heart beat faster, a sudden warmth blossoming in your chest that had nothing to do with the cooling night air. You looked away first, your eyes tracing the shimmering constellations overhead, as if searching the stars for answers you couldn’t find in his words.
“I don’t really understand it,” you admitted quietly, voice barely more than a whisper. “This whole idea of… fate, connection, binding forever. It sounds beautiful, but also… terrifying.”
Sesshōmaru’s eyes returned to you, softening just enough to betray the fierce pride he usually wore like armor.
“Terrifying,” he agreed, his voice low. “Because it asks you to give everything—your life, your soul—without hesitation.”
You shivered, though not from cold. The thought of surrendering so completely was daunting, yet something about his steady presence made it feel… possible.
“You make it sound like a promise,” you said slowly. “Not just an agreement or a contract.”
He inclined his head slightly, his expression solemn. “It is a promise. One that binds not only two souls but their very existence. To break it is to shatter the foundation of what we are.”
You swallowed hard, feeling the gravity settle over you like a cloak.
“And what if you’re scared?” you asked, daring to speak the question that had been gnawing at your thoughts. “What if loving someone—giving yourself to them—is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do?”
Sesshōmaru’s gaze held yours. “Then that fear becomes the test of the bond’s strength. True connection does not erase fear. It demands courage to face it.”
A slow smile touched your lips, bittersweet and full of hope.
“Maybe that’s why I’m still here. Still trying to figure it out.”
For the first time, Sesshōmaru’s lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile—an echo of warmth reserved only for you.
“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “we both are.”
The night deepened, wrapping you in its embrace, but in that moment, neither of you felt alone.
“There is another sign,” he said quietly after a while. “When the moon is full, the bond between mates strengthens. The one who has found their mate emits a scent—powerful and unmistakable. It calls to the other, drawing them closer, as if the world itself conspires to unite what is meant to be.”
You blinked, imagining the strange, almost magical pull he described.
“So, it’s like the moon awakens something inside you?”
He nodded, his voice low and steady. “Yes. A deep longing, a desire to be near, to become one.”
You looked away, cheeks flushing at the thought.
“Sounds intense.”
Sesshōmaru’s rare smirk was almost invisible. “It is.”
You both fell silent, the night wrapping around you like a quiet promise.
Back in the cramped room where you were held captive, the sharp scent of oils and powders filled the air, mingling with the faint, bitter sting of bruises and fear.
Your wrists still ached where the coarse ropes had chafed your skin raw, but now your captors busied themselves with the cruel task of preparing you for the wedding. They applied layers of makeup to your bruised face. Pale foundation to mask the discoloration, rouge to color your cheeks, lips painted a shade you barely recognized as yours.
You stared at your reflection in the cracked, dusty mirror—a painted mask of calm concealing the whirlwind of dread and fury inside.
Outside, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing louder.
The man who was to be your fake husband entered with a sneer that made your skin crawl. His eyes gleamed with greed and entitlement, as if you were nothing more than a prize to be claimed.
“You’ll wear the kimono well,” he said, his voice thick with false sweetness. “Soon, you’ll belong to me.”
You forced a bitter, sarcastic smile, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Sesshōmaru, you thought desperately. Where are you? Hurry. Please.
The weight of his words pressed down on you like a stone, suffocating and heavy. But beneath it all, a fierce ember of hope blazed bright and unyielding, because you knew. Somehow, you wouldn’t have to face this nightmare alone.
The heavy, oppressive silence hanging in the room was shattered like fragile glass by a low, primal roar that echoed through the hallways. A sound that seemed to shake the very stones beneath your feet. It was a roar full of ancient power, filled with unyielding fury and an unbreakable claim.
Before you could even catch your breath the sharp voices of the approaching soldiers cut through the air like arrows:
“The Demon Lord is here! Sesshōmaru has come!”
The men who had been so confident just moments ago suddenly froze. Their smug expressions drained away, replaced by wide-eyed panic. They exchanged quick, desperate glances, their earlier arrogance dissolving in the presence of a force they clearly feared.
Your pulse hammered in your chest as the room thickened with the scent of Sesshōmaru’s arrival. A fierce, commanding presence that felt almost tangible. It wrapped around you like a protective cloak.
Then, with a violent crash that sent shards of wood and paper fluttering through the air like wounded birds, the fragile paper screen was torn apart.
And there he was.
Sesshōmaru stood in the doorway, a towering figure wrapped in flowing white fur that seemed to ripple like a living storm. His armor caught the flickering light with deadly precision.But it was his eyes—golden and blazing with an unrelenting fire—that held the room captive.
His gaze swept over the trembling men, narrowing into lethal slits as if his mere look could slice through steel.
His voice came low and heavy with centuries of command:
“If you have dared to touch what belongs to me…”
He took a single step forward, the sound of his boots steady and ominous against the floor.
“I will kill every last one of you.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than any weapon.
You swallowed hard but forced yourself to sit straighter, meeting his fierce gaze with a spark of your own stubbornness.
“Well,” you said, your voice rough from bruises but sharp and defiant, a teasing smirk playing on your lips despite everything, “looks like my possessive demon will have to kill you all for touching me.”
Sesshōmaru’s eyes flicked to you—there was a flicker of something almost tender, an unspoken bond glimmering beneath the cold surface—before snapping back to the trembling men.
With a fluid, almost predatory grace, he drew his sword. The blade gleamed like moonlight sharp and deadly.
Outside, the sounds of battle crashed louder—the furious clash of steel, shouted commands, and the frantic pounding of hooves.
But inside the room, time seemed to slow as Sesshōmaru became an unstoppable force.
The moment Sesshōmaru’s blade sliced through the air, the room erupted into chaos. Steel clashed against steel, but none could match his cold, deadly precision. Each strike was flawless, a whirlwind of lethal grace and unrelenting power.
Men fell before him like brittle leaves in a storm, their desperate screams swallowed by the roar of his fury. The air grew thick with the scent of blood and smoke as Sesshōmaru moved through the room like a force of nature.
Your heart pounded in your chest, every bruise and ache forgotten beneath the surge of adrenaline. You watched him—your demon lord, fierce and unyielding—silently vowing to protect you.
When the last enemy crumpled to the ground, Sesshōmaru turned to you, his golden eyes softened with a rare, fierce tenderness. Without hesitation, he knelt and lifted you into his arms, careful despite his overwhelming strength.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice a low promise against the chaos that still lingered.
You rested your head against his broad chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the armor. The world outside the room seemed distant, irrelevant.
Sesshōmaru carried you effortlessly, every step sure and purposeful as he moved away from the ruins of captivity. No one would dare stop him—not now, not ever.
Sesshōmaru’s arms cradled you firmly as he carried you away from the ruins of captivity. Each step steady, yet his grip never loosened. The faint ache in your ribs flared with the movement, but you refused to show weakness—not when he was so close.
“So,” you began, voice light but edged with sarcasm, “you’re finally here. Took your sweet time, didn’t it?”
His golden eyes flickered to you. “I arrived when I deemed necessary.”
You smirked, shifting slightly in his arms to catch his gaze. “That’s demon lord speak for ‘I was dragging my feet.’”
Sesshōmaru’s expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle tension in the set of his jaw. “Your wounds concern me more than your wit.”
“Concern?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds more like a begrudging annoyance to me.”
A shadow of something—something unreadable—passed through his eyes before he looked away, focusing on the path ahead. “I do not tolerate carelessness.”
You let out a soft laugh, breath warm against his armor. “I’m stubborn, not careless. And maybe I don’t need you fussing over me.”
The air between you thickened, charged with unspoken words. Sesshōmaru’s grip tightened imperceptibly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You belong where you are protected.”
You caught the hesitation there. The glimmer of emotion buried beneath his cold exterior. Yet you held your ground, meeting his look steadily.
“Protected?” you mused. “Sounds a lot like possession to me.”
He said nothing, but the tightening of his lips was answer enough.
Sesshōmaru’s eyes lingered on you a moment longer, the cold mask faltering just enough to reveal something fierce and protective beneath.
“You need to rest,” he said quietly but commanding.
You blinked, surprised by the softness coming through his words. “Rest? After all this? I’m fine.”
He tightened his hold slightly, shifting you to settle you more comfortably against his chest. “You are bruised. Your body demands it, whether you admit it or not.”
You met his gaze, defiance was showing in your eyes. “I don’t like being babied.”
“I do not babble,” Sesshōmaru replied with a faint edge, though the concern in his voice was unmistakable. “Sleep. Now.”
There was no room for argument in his tone, and despite your stubbornness, you felt the pull of exhaustion creeping in. The ache in your ribs and the dull throb in your cheek whispered the truth you tried to deny.
You sighed, letting your head rest lightly against his shoulder. “Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.”
Sesshōmaru’s lips twitched before he lifted his gaze to the darkening sky beyond.
“Good. You will be of no use if you are weak.”
The quiet between you settled like a soft blanket, heavy with things left unsaid but understood. You didn’t press, and he didn’t speak more—not yet.
For now, the only thing that mattered was that you were safe in his arms. And that, somehow, that was enough.
The world blurred softly as you drifted into uneasy sleep, cradled in Sesshōmaru’s arms. When you next opened your eyes, the room was dimly lit by flickering candles, their warm glow casting long shadows on the walls. The dull ache in your body had softened, though a lingering pain reminded you of the violence you’d endured.
Sesshōmaru sat beside you, silent and watchful. His expression unreadable but undeniably vigilant.
Your wrists were no longer bound; bandages wrapped neatly around them and your ribs were gently supported. The bruises across your skin still marred their surface, but the sharp sting had faded.
You shifted slightly, feeling the exhaustion tugging at you still.
“I’m still tired,” you admitted, voice soft but stubborn.
Sesshōmaru’s golden eyes moved toward you. “You will remain here until you regain your strength.”
You frowned, attempting to sit up, but he placed a firm hand on your shoulder, pressing you back gently but firmly.
“That is not a request,” he said, voice low and unwavering.
You stared at him, surprised by the absolute authority in his tone. “I’m not a child, Sesshōmaru.”
He didn’t flinch. “Nor am I one to entertain foolishness when it endangers you.”
The weight of his words settled between you.
You sighed, the fight draining from you faster than you expected. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
Sesshōmaru’s gaze softened just a fraction, and for a moment, the cold, imperious demon lord was replaced by someone fiercely protective and quietly concerned.
“Good. Do not test me.”
You smirked, despite yourself. “Noted.”
He stood, turning away to tend to other matters, but his voice carried over his shoulder.
“I will not allow you to leave my side.”
And with that, the unspoken truth hung heavy in the air—you were his to protect, and he would settle for nothing less than your safety.
It had been nearly a month since your rescue. The bruises were gone, the cuts had faded, and your pride—though dented—had fully mended.
Life within Sesshōmaru’s stronghold had become... strangely peaceful. You’d healed, trained with Rin, and teased Jaken into several tantrums. You never mentioned the night Sesshōmaru carried you out of the fire-lit carnage, nor the strange look in his eyes as he told you not to leave his side.
But you’d stayed, hadn’t you?
Still, even the grand halls of a demon lord’s castle couldn’t hold you forever.
So, with a basket under your arm and a vague excuse about mushrooms and “stew emergencies,” you slipped into the woods. The autumn breeze brushed through your hair. The forest golden and quiet beneath a crisp blue sky. You’d just meant to be gone an hour. Maybe two.
But time, in the woods, had a way of slipping.
By the time you blinked up at the darkening canopy, the sun had disappeared entirely. Crickets chirped. Fog rolled low along the mossy floor. And the moon—full, impossibly bright—rose above the trees like a silver eye watching everything.
You exhaled slowly and adjusted your basket.
“Right. Time to head back before someone panics and unleashes unholy retribution on the nearest living thing.”
The moon hung full and luminous in the night sky, casting the forest in silver light. Sesshōmaru stood alone on the high balcony of his fortress, arms folded in his sleeves, unmoving as a marble statue. Below, the world sprawled wide—woods stretching into shadows, rivers glinting like slivers of glass. The night was quiet.
Until it wasn't.
It began as a whisper.
A scent.
Her.
But not as it had always been. This was different. Richer. Sharper. Threaded with something deeper—something ancient. It slid through the air like silk and hit him with force, piercing through the walls of the fortress as if distance meant nothing.
His body reacted before his thoughts did. Muscles tensed. Breathing slowed. The beast beneath his skin stirred awake—snarling, clawing, impatient.
She was in the woods. Alone. At night.
And it was the full moon.
He turned his face slightly into the breeze, letting the scent flood his senses. It curled around him—warm, wild, and unmistakably hers.
Mate.
The word echoed through him, low and primal.
He had suspected before—quietly, privately, in the way she disarmed him with her sarcasm and smile, in the way she stood fearless even when wounded. But tonight…
Tonight, there was no doubt. Her scent—sweet with adrenaline, laced with the faintest spike of unease—called to him. Every instinct screamed to find her. Protect her. Claim her.
Without a word, he leapt from the balcony, his white haori billowing behind him like stormclouds as he vanished into the forest.
Leaves crunched underfoot as you tried not to panic. The trees looked different under moonlight, haunting and tall, as though they'd rearranged themselves just to confuse you. You hugged your basket of foraged mushrooms tighter, muttering to yourself.
“Okay, okay. It’s just a forest. I’ve seen worse. I literally got kidnapped. This is child’s play.”
But still—you glanced up.
The full moon stared down at you, cold and bright.
And that’s when you felt it. A presence.
The hairs on the back of your neck prickled. Your skin flushed with goosebumps. Something in the air shifted—like the moment right before a storm breaks.
And then—
“Sesshōmaru?”
You hadn’t even heard him approach. He emerged from between the trees like a shadow given form, silent and controlled… but not quite calm.
His eyes were glowing faintly under the moonlight, locked on you with unsettling intensity.
“Sesshōmaru,” you repeated, breath catching. “I was just heading back. I swear.”
He didn’t answer right away. He was too busy inhaling—subtle, but unmistakable. As if scent alone told him more than words ever could.
“You should not have left the grounds tonight,” he said, voice low and darker than usual.
You raised a brow, a shaky smile playing on your lips. “What, afraid I’d trip on a rock and ruin your precious moss collection?”
Still, he said nothing. Just moved closer. Deliberate. Focused.
You caught the faintest flicker of something strange in his expression—something raw.
Your hand gripped the basket tighter.
Then he moved. Not fast—but fluid. Intentional.
He reached out and gently pried the basket from your fingers, letting it fall to the ground with a dull thud, mushrooms spilling like forgotten thoughts.
“Sesshōmaru—?” you began again, but his hand was already threading into your hair.
You froze.
He leaned in, face lowering until his nose brushed against your temple, your hair, the curve of your jaw. Inhaling deeply.
Like he was memorizing you.
Marking you.
You barely dared to breathe.
His voice, when it came, was a rough whisper.
“You are mine.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“Yours?” you echoed, voice low and trembling despite your best effort. “What… what does that mean?”
He didn’t pull away.
He stayed close—forehead nearly resting against yours, the fingers in your hair tightening slightly.
“Mate,” he said, so softly it was almost reverent. “Your scent. It has changed.”
You blinked, stunned. “Changed?”
“It’s stronger. Calling to me.” His breath ghosted across your cheek. “The full moon brings clarity. You are meant for me.”
You felt the world narrow to the space between your bodies. The moon. The trees. The wind. None of it mattered now.
“But… how do you know?” you whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief.
He finally pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His expression unreadable—but something ancient burned beneath it.
“Because I can no longer breathe without needing you near.”
The confession slipped from him like a truth too long buried.
You stared at him—this proud, cold demon lord who barely tolerated most company—claiming you like it was etched into his soul.
And you didn’t run.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t laugh or tease or deflect.
You just… stood there, trembling under the weight of what was unspoken.
And for the first time, you understood what he meant by mate.
You stood in the quiet woods, the world still, moonlight washing everything in silver and shadow. The basket lay forgotten at your feet, and Sesshōmaru—this proud, ancient creature—looked at you like you were something sacred.
His eyes lingered on your face, flicking briefly to your lips, then to your neck, where your pulse fluttered beneath your skin.
The space between you hummed.
“You… want to bite me?” you asked, half disbelieving, your voice barely more than breath. There was no fear in your tone—just a quiet, stunned awe.
Sesshōmaru’s hand found your waist, steady and firm, drawing you closer until your bodies nearly touched. His other hand remained tangled gently in your hair, angling your face up toward his.
“I would not harm you,” he said, voice like silk drawn over a blade. “This is not a wound. It is a vow.”
Your breath hitched as you met his eyes—glowing, wild with restraint, and something else… something that felt like longing.
“Then what is it?”
“A mark,” he murmured, brushing his lips near the shell of your ear. “A symbol to any who would dare take you again. That you are mine.”
The word trembled in the air between you.
You swallowed hard. “So… what happens if you do?”
He was silent for a moment. Then—
“It binds us. In the old ways. The instinct of the mate bond, once awakened, must be honored. To ignore it would be to suffer.”
“Suffer?” you echoed, trying to focus with your heart pounding.
“I need you close,” he admitted. The quiet intensity of his voice made your knees weaken. “Every hour I’ve been apart from you, my blood has burned.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
You tilted your head slightly—offering.
It was not a grand gesture. Not a surrender. But something quieter, and deeper.
Trust.
Sesshōmaru’s breath stilled.
Then, wordlessly, reverently, he leaned down.
His fangs brushed your skin where your neck met your shoulder. Your hands gripped his sleeves as he held you steady, mouth hovering for one last moment of hesitation.
And then—
A sharp heat.
You gasped, clinging to him as his fangs sank into your skin—not cruelly, not viciously—but with terrifying purpose. Pain bloomed, but it was fleeting, swallowed by a strange warmth that pulsed through your chest and down your limbs.
He growled low in his throat, something deep and ancient and possessive, his arm tightening around you as if he couldn’t stand the thought of letting go.
When he finally pulled back, he licked the wound—slow, deliberate—his gaze locked on yours. Your breath trembled against his lips.
A faint crescent-shaped mark, faintly glowing, now sat on your skin—like moonlight kissed into flesh.
“I have claimed what is mine,” he said softly.
You shivered—not from cold, but from the weight of it.
And yet, you couldn’t stop the smirk that curved your lips as you whispered, “Took you long enough, Sessh.”
His jaw flexed—but there was no anger in his eyes. Only fire. Only you.
The warmth of Sesshōmaru’s body pressed against yours, a powerful contrast to the cool night air. His breath still ghosted over your skin where he had bitten you—tender now, reverent, almost like an apology for the sharpness of it. But it didn’t feel like pain anymore.
It felt like gravity.
You leaned into him without thinking, your hands curled into the fabric of his haori. Your heart thundered in your chest—not in fear, but in something else entirely. Something raw and strange and dangerously intimate.
“I can feel it,” you whispered, fingertips brushing the place where his teeth had claimed you. “It’s still warm.”
Sesshōmaru’s eyes darkened, glowing slightly in the silver moonlight. His hand slid down your back, not quite possessive—but it lingered like it needed to be there.
“It will remain,” he murmured. “A permanent mark. Not only on your skin, but in your scent.”
You blinked up at him. “My scent?”
He nodded, his nostrils flaring faintly as if to prove the point. “It’s changed. The moment I bit you... it shifted. It is unmistakable now. To other demons, to me—there is no hiding it.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but then his gaze dropped—slowly—to your collarbone. You followed it, and—
A pale crescent mark had begun to bloom just beneath the surface of your skin. Not angry or inflamed, but glowing softly, like moonlight stitched into your flesh. It shimmered faintly with every breath you took.
Your eyes widened. “Is that...”
“Yes,” he said simply. “The bond.”
You touched it gently, as if testing its reality. It didn’t hurt. It pulsed faintly under your fingers—warm, alive. Connected.
“What does it mean now?” you asked quietly.
Sesshōmaru stepped closer, his voice a low, restrained growl. “It means I will never allow distance between us again. That no one will ever dare lay a hand on you without facing death.”
You didn’t speak for a moment.
Not because you were afraid.
But because you could feel it too. The hum beneath your skin. The ache of closeness that somehow wasn’t close enough. The way your pulse jumped every time his scent filled your lungs. It was more than attraction. More than protection.
It was pull.
And he was fighting it.
You watched his jaw clench, his breath quicken—subtle, but there. He was standing still, but it felt like he was at war with himself.
“Are you… okay?” you asked cautiously.
Sesshōmaru met your eyes with something fierce and conflicted behind his usually impassive gaze.
“You smell like mine,” he said, his voice taut. “And it drives me mad.”
Your breath caught.
“And yet,” he added, tilting his head slightly, “I would not touch you further unless you asked me to.”
You stared at him, stunned by both the intensity and the restraint.
“And if I did?” you asked softly.
He exhaled once, sharply, nostrils flaring.
“Then I would not stop until the whole world knew to whom you belonged.”
Your breath faltered.
But then a playful spark flickered behind your gaze. You raised an eyebrow.
“Well,” you said, fingers brushing the edge of his armor, “that sounds both incredibly romantic and mildly terrifying.”
His lips curled—just slightly, almost imperceptibly.
“Good,” he said. “Then you understand.”
Still drawn together by a bond too fresh to define, he leaned in once more, inhaling deeply at the crown of your head, his lips brushing your hair as he whispered, low and reverent:
“You will sleep beside me tonight. For your safety.”
You rolled your eyes faintly. “For my scent, you mean.”
His silence was answer enough.
But as he gently picked up the fallen basket with one hand and laced his fingers through yours with the other—leading you back to the castle—you didn’t pull away.
Because something in your soul had already accepted the truth.
The castle was quiet as he led you through its halls, your hand still resting in his. His grip never loosened, but it wasn’t tight. Not commanding. Just there—grounding, steady, warm in a way that caught you off guard.
You didn’t ask where he was taking you. You already knew.
When you reached his private chambers, Sesshōmaru opened the door silently. The space inside was wide and spare, but elegant. Moonlight filtered through rice paper screens, pooling in silver on the floor. You hesitated at the threshold for just a moment.
“This is not an invitation,” he said behind you. “It is necessity.”
You raised a brow, letting your fingers trail over the fresh mark at your neck. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
His golden eyes locked on yours. “You smell like fire and warmth and mine,” he said evenly. “I cannot ignore it. Neither can you.”
Your throat tightened. You stepped inside.
He followed, quiet as breath, and only when the door slid shut behind you did you feel the weight of the bond surge again between you—like a live wire under your skin. You could feel his awareness of you. The way his eyes tracked your every movement. How his body radiated heat, though he hadn’t touched you again.
You stood in the center of the room for a moment, arms crossed.
“You’re restless,” you said.
“You are glowing,” he replied simply, as if that explained everything.
You blinked. “Wait, what?”
“The mark,” he said, motioning with his eyes toward your collarbone. You glanced down. The crescent mark pulsed faintly, the same silvery-blue as the moon outside.
You stepped toward the mirror and caught your breath. It was glowing—gently, not like a wound, but like moonlight had been stitched into your skin. Subtle, but alive. Beautiful, in a haunting way.
“It reacts to you,” Sesshōmaru said behind you.
“And you?” you asked, half-teasing, half-breathless.
He didn’t answer. Instead, you felt the heat of his body as he stepped behind you, close but not quite touching. His voice brushed your ear like velvet:
“I feel your nearness like a hunger.”
You shivered.
He reached out, slow and deliberate, and his claws gently brushed a loose strand of hair from your neck, careful not to touch the mark itself.
“I want you close because my instincts demand it. But more than that…” he paused, jaw tightening, “…I want you close.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
This was no longer about instincts. Not entirely.
“You’re holding back,” you whispered.
He exhaled, and you felt his breath on your shoulder.
“If I didn’t,” he said lowly, “you wouldn’t sleep tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and he finally—finally—rested his hand on your waist. Gentle. Solid.
Not a demand. A promise.
“Your scent,“ he said, voice quiet, low, strained. “It clouds my judgment.” You turned to face him slowly. “Is that… a bad thing?”
Sesshōmaru didn’t answer. He just looked at you — like he was memorizing the shape of you, the sound of your breath, the way your skin caught the moonlight.
You crossed your arms lightly. “So what happens now? You growl at anyone who gets near me and I glow like a firefly every time you breathe in?”
“I marked you,” he said quietly. “But I should not have tasted you.”
Your breath caught. “Why?”
“Because now I want more,” he said, almost to himself. “And I cannot… think clearly when you are near.”
He was still holding your waist. Pushing you closer to him. So close, you could feel the heat radiating off him. The way his body trembled, just slightly — like it was taking everything in him not to touch you.
“You’re not thinking clearly,” you echoed, voice soft.
His eyes dropped to your lips.
“No.”
You opened your mouth to say something — you didn’t even know what — but before a single word could leave you, he moved.
His hand cupped your jaw, gentle but possessive, and his mouth met yours in a kiss that stole your breath and seared down your spine. There was no hesitation in it — just raw need and something deeper, something that curled like fire low in your belly.
You gasped softly against him, and that was all it took — his other hand slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
But then — almost as suddenly as it began — he pulled back. Barely. His breath came fast, ragged. His forehead pressed against yours.
“I shouldn’t,” he growled under his breath, claws flexing against your hip.
“Then don’t,” you whispered, lips still tingling.
“I can’t—” His voice broke off. He squeezed his eyes shut, like he was fighting something inside himself. “Your scent… it’s driving me mad.”
Your hand found his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart under your palm.
“You’re losing control,” you said softly.
He opened his eyes — and the look in them wasn’t cold. It was wild. Unrestrained. Needing.
“I never lose control.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
The smallest growl rumbled in his throat. Then he took a long, shuddering breath and stepped back — only barely.
You could still feel the press of his lips, the trembling in his hands, the heat that had seared through your skin when his mouth had claimed yours — brief, hungry, and pulled away too fast.
But he hadn’t moved far.
He stood a few paces away, his back to you, chest rising and falling with effort. Like the very act of keeping his distance was shredding him from the inside out.
And you understood it now. The way his eyes darkened when you got too close. The way his voice went hoarse around your name. The mark that now glowed faintly against your skin — a claim, a promise.
You’d been dancing on the edge of this for weeks. Pretending the pull between you wasn’t real. But it was. And now that you’d felt the depth of his longing — the ache just beneath his skin — you couldn’t ignore your own any longer.
You stepped forward, slowly.
“Sesshōmaru,” you said gently.
He didn’t turn.
“I should not—” he began, but his voice cracked around the words. “I cannot… I have never—”
You closed the space between you, reaching out and brushing your fingers against his hand.
“Then let yourself,” you whispered. “Just this once.”
He turned — slowly, as if afraid he’d break the moment by breathing wrong — and when his golden eyes met yours, they were no longer cold.
They were burning.
Still, he hesitated. His claws flexed at his sides. “You don’t understand what you’re offering.”
“Then show me.”
His restraint shattered.
He caught you in his arms so fast you barely registered the motion — one hand buried in your hair, the other firm at your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as his mouth crushed yours. This kiss wasn’t careful. It wasn’t composed.
It was need. Raw, consuming, and centuries in the making.
Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his haori, and he groaned low in his throat as you kissed him back — with everything you had. All the fear, all the longing, all the impossible emotions that had tangled between you from the moment you first crossed paths.
He backed you into the wall, lips never leaving yours, and the growl in his chest deepened when you whimpered softly under his touch. His claws skimmed your sides with maddening gentleness — he was still holding back.
Even now.
You cupped his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze.
“Sesshōmaru,” you breathed, voice shaking, “you don’t have to control it. Not with me.”
His breath hitched.
Then his mouth was on your neck, kissing the place where his mark burned warm against your skin. You gasped as his tongue traced the line of it, and when his fangs sank in — slowly, reverently — your knees nearly gave out.
But he held you.
Held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.
When he pulled back, the mark had changed — glowing deeper, richer, thrumming with you both.
And the look in his eyes?
Ruinous.
“You are mine,” he said hoarsely, forehead resting against yours. “In scent, in soul… in blood.”
You smiled, breathless. “Finally figured it out, huh?”
He growled softly — and kissed you again.
This time, there was no hesitation.
No distance.
Only fire. And the ancient, silent vow of a daiyōkai who had finally stopped running from the truth in his chest.
The soft glow of dawn filtered gently through the translucent shoji screens, bathing the room in a warm, pale light. You lay nestled against Sesshōmaru’s broad chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a soothing anchor in the stillness.
Your body was heavy with exhaustion, but the quiet calm around you was a balm — the kind of peace you hadn’t known for weeks.
His arm was draped protectively over your waist, holding you close but without restraint. The faint pulse of the mark on your neck throbbed softly, a subtle reminder of last night’s irrevocable change.
You lifted your head slightly, watching the play of early sunlight on his sharp features. His eyes were closed, eyelashes casting shadows against his pale skin, and the tension you’d seen in him before was gone, replaced by something quieter… softer.
A breath escaped you — half a sigh, half a question.
“Sesshōmaru,” you whispered.
His eyes fluttered open, golden irises slowly focusing on you. The raw intensity from last night was softened by something gentle, almost hesitant.
“You’re awake,” he said, voice low and rough from sleep.
You shifted to look up at him, tracing the line of his jaw with your eyes. “You didn’t leave.”
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I will not leave you. Not while you are weak.”
You let out a humorless laugh, but it wasn’t bitter — more a release. “Weak is a generous word for how I’m feeling.”
His hand moved to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, fingers brushing lightly over your skin. “You must rest. You have lost much strength.”
“And you don’t think I’m going to sneak away the moment you look the other way?”
His gaze darkened slightly, sharp and unreadable. “I would stop you.”
You smirked, teasing despite the weariness. “You make it sound like it’s not a question.”
“It is not,” Sesshōmaru repeated, voice firmer now.
You smiled softly, resting your head back against his chest. “Good. Because I don’t want to go anywhere just yet.”
His hand settled on your hip, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles. The silence between you was comfortable now — filled with unspoken promises and the kind of closeness that didn’t need words.
After a moment, you dared to ask, voice barely more than a murmur. “Do you think… things will ever be the same? Between us?”
His breath caught slightly. “No.”
You blinked, surprised.
He continued, voice low and steady, “It will be something different. Stronger. More… binding.”
Your fingers curled around his wrist, steadying yourself. “And does that frighten you?”
For a heartbeat, Sesshōmaru said nothing. Then, quietly, “No. It is a necessary change. One I have been avoiding… until now.”
You swallowed, heart pounding with a mix of hope and uncertainty.
“Then we’re both learning,” you whispered.
He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. “Yes. Together.”
As sunlight crept further into the room, washing away the shadows of night, you felt it — a new beginning woven in the quiet, in the trust building between you.
And for the first time, the future didn’t seem so uncertain.
The bond between you and Sesshōmaru was no longer something distant or abstract. It had begun to change you both in ways neither of you expected.
For you, the world itself felt subtly altered. Your dreams grew more vivid—filled with glimpses of distant places, flickers of Sesshōmaru’s memories, moments you had never lived but now felt intimately familiar. Sometimes, waking felt like crossing a threshold between two lives: one in the modern world you once knew, and another deeply intertwined with a timeless, ancient existence.
Physically, your body seemed to respond differently. Bruises healed faster, and fatigue faded more quickly, as if the bond offered a quiet, unspoken healing. But it wasn’t just your body—your emotions felt sharper, deeper. You found yourself more patient, but also more fiercely protective of the few moments of peace you shared with him.
Sesshōmaru, meanwhile, bore changes not so easily seen.
His usual calm was tinged with a restlessness you hadn’t seen before. He moved with the same deliberate grace, but occasionally his eyes would darken—not with anger, but something more like... uncertainty.
When you touched his hand, however briefly, you noticed the slight tremor beneath his stoic exterior—a crack in his armor. The bond, invisible but powerful, pulled at him too, weaving itself through his very being.
One evening, while you sat beside him watching the stars, Sesshōmaru spoke quietly, almost as if confessing to himself.
“This connection,” he began, voice low and rough with rare vulnerability, “it unsettles the order I have built around myself. It stirs emotions I long believed buried.”
You looked at him, surprised. “Like what?”
He hesitated, then met your gaze steadily. “Compassion. Patience. A desire... not just to protect, but to understand.”
You smiled softly. “Sounds like it’s changing you.”
“It is,” he admitted. “But not in ways I regret. This bond—though unexpected—has sharpened my sense of purpose, tethered me to something beyond solitude and power.”
Your heart tightened at the thought of the proud demon, whose life was forged in loneliness, admitting to such things.
“And you?” he asked, turning the question back to you. “How do you bear this change?”
You thought for a moment, then answered honestly. “I’m scared sometimes. But I also feel... stronger. Like I’m part of something I didn’t believe was real.”
Sesshōmaru nodded slowly. “Then we face it together.”
The weight of those words settled over you both, heavy with promise and uncertainty.
You reached out, fingers brushing against his cheek—a rare softness in your touch.
“I don’t know what the future holds,” you whispered.
“Nor do I,” Sesshōmaru replied, his voice steady. “But whatever it is, we will face it side by side.”
In that quiet moment, the world around you felt still and whole—two souls, changed and changing, bound by a force deeper than time or fate.
Hii! Just found ur blog n read the Charles doc for Vogue Secrets and it was absolutelyy adorable🥹❤️. I was hoping if you would be writing more Charles fics that r set in the same story cuz I really love your writing😊. Thanks so much and I hope you’re having a great day/night. Take caree🥰❤️
Monaco Afternoons
Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader
Summary… an ordinary afternoon in monaco: juice boxes, paper crowns, sleepy babies, and the kind of love you only find once in a lifetime.
it’s nothing big. just love, soft and ordinary. the kind that makes you feel like the luckiest person in the world.
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A/N:
Hi! This message genuinely made my day, thank you so much for reading and for being so kind. I'm so happy you enjoyed the Vogue Beauty Secrets fic. It means the world to know that this little version of the Leclerc family is living in someone else’s head and heart too.
And yes, absolutely. I’ll be writing more Charles fics set in the same universe. I’ve grown so attached to this cozy little world, and there are definitely more stories to tell. Whether it's quiet mornings, beach trips, bedtime chaos, or something else entirely, they’ll be back. Just let me know what you want to see.
Thanks again for taking the time to reach out. I hope you’re having a lovely day or night, and take care. Truly. ❤️
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Like, Comment, Reblog, Enjoy!! - 💋
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It’s a quiet afternoon in Monaco, the kind where the air feels just a little salty and the sea breeze slips through open windows with no urgency.
You’re sitting on a blanket spread across the sun-warmed terrace of your apartment, legs outstretched, baby Amélie asleep across your chest, her cheek smushed against your collarbone. She’s drooling slightly, one tiny fist clinging to the neckline of your dress.
Leo, is curled at your feet, panting gently, his ears twitching every so often as if even in rest he’s on duty.
“Do you think he knows he’s not a big dog?” you whisper to Amélie, scratching behind Leo’s ear. “He walks like he owns the marina.”
You don’t expect an answer, of course, but if the soft grunt Amélie makes in her sleep is any indication, she agrees.
From inside the apartment, you hear the sound of laughter, then feet padding quickly across hardwood, then...
“MAMAN! Look what Papa did!”
Maxime bursts through the open sliding doors first, grinning, two strawberries stuck onto his fingers like claws. Luca follows close behind, holding what appears to be a makeshift paper crown with crayon scribbles and a Ferrari sticker on the front.
Charles trails behind them, carrying a tray with juice boxes and two small plates of cut-up fruit and cheese. He’s barefoot, sun-kissed, and wearing a navy t-shirt that used to be yours.
“He let us eat strawberries before lunch,” Maxime tattles gleefully.
Charles pretends to look scandalized. “They were organic. And sliced. That’s basically a salad.”
You give him a look, but your heart isn’t in it. He winks, sets the tray down on the blanket, and leans in to press a kiss to your temple, then one to the soft curls on Amélie’s head.
“Is she out?” he whispers.
“She made it exactly four minutes into your crown-making craft session.”
“Understandable. Maxime takes glue sticks very seriously.”
The boys settle onto the blanket, Leo immediately scooting over to rest his chin on Luca’s ankle. Maxime offers him a piece of cheese. “For being the best guard dog in the whole world.”
Leo accepts it with regal calm, as if it’s his divine right.
You and Charles sit back against the terrace railing, Amélie shifting gently in your arms, the quiet hum of the city below you. Somewhere nearby, a yacht horn blares lazily. Birds chirp. A Vespa whirs past. Monaco hums along.
“You know what I was thinking about this morning?” Charles asks suddenly, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles on your knee.
“What?”
“That first summer we spent here. When the apartment had no furniture. When we had to eat pasta on the floor.”
You smile, remembering it perfectly. “And Leo was the only one with a proper bed.”
“And now look at us,” he says softly, watching Maxime show Luca how to build a tower out of cheese cubes. “Three kids, a mortgage, and enough toys to build a small city.”
“And still no matching socks for anyone,” you sigh, holding up one of Amélie’s, a soft pink one that definitely doesn’t match the yellow bootie on her other foot.
Charles laughs. “It’s called aesthetic chaos. Very trendy.”
You lean your head against his shoulder and close your eyes for a moment.
It’s warm. Not just from the sun, but from this. The life you built together, noisy and sticky and perfectly imperfect.
“I like our version of Monaco,” you murmur.
He kisses the top of your head. “Me too.”
Maxime giggles loudly, a strawberry now mushed to his nose, Luca chanting “Leo! Leo! King Leo!” as he places the paper crown on the dog’s head.
Leo sighs like a saint but allows it.
Amélie stirs in your arms, then settles again, tiny lips puckering in her sleep.
And for a long, quiet moment, nothing happens except sunlight and soft laughter and the feeling of Charles's hand, warm and sure, resting over yours.
————
the end.
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Comment to be added to the tag list 🫶
Requests open!
ship: virgin!telemachus x fem!virgin!brothel worker!reader
warnings: explicit ( oral f. receiving / f. & m. handjob / mutual virginity loss / heavy fanservice / soft dominance )
word count: 14.7k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~)
a/n: okay so remember how I thought part 1 was gonna be the whole thing??? yeah well apparently my brain was like "lol what if he came BACK tho 👀" and then I blacked out and wrote 15k words of soft tension, pining, and damp-shirt Telemachus content?? 😭😭 idk man something about writing two people who are both shy AND desperate just gets me?? like you're gonna read this and either combust or get cavities from the sweetness. anyway. welcome back to the Slow Burn Olympics, where the burn is slow but the eye contact is scorching. pls enjoy this stormy-night reunion feat. awkward wine pouring, thigh-touching, and enough longing stares to fuel a small city 🩷✨also, lololol ngl y'all the amount of xxx/porn videos i had pulled up in my tab to study/cuz i overanalyze wondering if it made sense??? is insanity 💀💀idky i went so hard/reasearching like it really mattered loolollo. but yeah sorrryyy yall gotta read my 15k wrds of filth 😭😭 also, imma go hibernate in embaressment for the next week 😭😭😭
It had been a few weeks since that night. Just as Madam said, you'd been pulled off rotation. You still worked, of course—laundry didn't clean itself, and the sheets in this place never stayed white for long—but it felt different now.
You weren't sure how.
Right now, you were carrying a drink out to the lounge. The cup rattled against the tray with every step you took, warm wine sloshing over the rim. You'd tried to wipe it with a rag, but the stain bled down the clay anyway. Madam would scold you later. You were too distracted to care.
The lounge was quiet today. Outside, rain lashed against the windows, the sky black as tar even though it was still afternoon. Thunder rolled low and heavy every few minutes, shaking the floors so gently you almost didn't notice unless you were standing still.
The scent of wet earth drifted in through the cracks in the shutters. Most patrons had left before the storm hit, wanting to make it back to their ships or homes before the roads turned to rivers.
Only a few customers remained—mostly regulars, old men with hunched shoulders playing dice in the corner, their laughter low and tired. A pair of girls sat near the hearth, whispering to each other and braiding each other’s hair. The fire snapped and popped, trying its best to warm the damp chill that seeped into the floorboards.
And then there was her.
You approached slowly, balancing the tray against your hip. The woman sat alone on one of the low cushioned benches near the window. She was older, maybe in her late forties, with sharp cheekbones and light hair pinned back in a thick coil.
Her robes were deep green, trimmed with gold thread that shimmered whenever the candlelight touched it. She wore jewelry that clinked softly when she moved—rings on nearly every finger, thin bracelets stacked along her wrists, a necklace heavy with small carved charms. They clicked against the clay cup as you set it down on the low table before her.
"Your drink, ma'am," you said softly, keeping your eyes lowered.
For a moment, the woman didn't move. You saw her fingers tap once against the table, the sound muffled by her rings. Then, slowly, her head lifted, and you caught her eyes—light brown with little gold flecks near the center. They were sharp at first, narrowed with the same tired boredom you saw in most customers.
But then her gaze shifted. Softened. Brightened.
A smile curved across her lips, turning her face warm and almost girlish despite the fine lines near her eyes. Her shoulders relaxed, and her whole expression turned... flirty. Sweet, in a way that felt practiced but not cruel.
"Well, aren't you just the cutest little thing," she purred, her voice smooth and husky all at once. Her gaze dropped to the cup you placed before her, and she picked it up with graceful fingers, bringing it to her lips. "Thank you, darling."
You swallowed, heat crawling up your neck. "You're... welcome," you managed, taking a small step back and gripping the tray tighter against your hip.
You turned to leave, eager to slip away before she could say anything else, but her voice stopped you before you'd even taken two steps.
"Wait," she called softly. You paused, turning halfway, eyes darting to the floor. You heard her chuckle under her breath. "Tell me, sweet girl... do you have any customers today?"
The question made your chest tighten. You hesitated, shifting the tray in your hands.
"I... uh... no," you admitted, voice barely louder than the rain pounding against the windows. "I'm... I'm off the schedule."
There was a beat of silence. Then, like a candle sparking back to life, her eyes lit up. She perked up in her seat, her smile widening into something teasing and bright.
"Off the schedule?" she repeated, her tone dripping with amused surprise. "Oh, then you have time to sit with me, hm?"
You stiffened, your heart thumping painfully against your ribs. "I-I'm sorry, ma'am—"
She cut you off with a giggle, light and airy like the tinkle of her bracelets as she set her cup back down. Her hand reached out, fingers curling in a playful little beckoning gesture.
"Cut the 'ma'am' nonsense," she chided softly, tilting her head to the side. "You know my name."
You exhaled shakily, shoulders slumping in quiet defeat. Of course you knew her name. Everyone here did.
"...Khloris," you mumbled, just loud enough for her to hear.
Her smile turned smug and sweet at the same time, eyes twinkling as she patted the empty space beside her.
"That's better," she hummed. "Now come. Sit with me a while. My darling is still getting ready upstairs, and I hate waiting alone."
You sighed again, clutching the tray tighter to your chest, the cushion dipping softly beneath your knees as you lowered yourself onto it, careful to keep a polite distance between you and her silken robes.
Outside, thunder rolled through the sky, rattling the shutters and casting shadows across Khloris' sharp cheekbones. She looked over at you, that same playful smile tugging at her lips, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered what it felt like to have her confidence. To smile at storms like they were nothing but passing winds.
But you said nothing. You only sat there, eyes downcast, listening to the rain as it drummed against the glass like a heartbeat you couldn't quiet. The smell of wet wood and old wine filled your nose, warm and heavy.
Khloris leaned forward, resting her elbow on the low table; she played with the rim of her wine cup, swirling it so the dark liquid sloshed up the sides.
"Sooo..." she drawled, her voice dripping with playful curiosity. "I heard you've been bought?"
Your head snapped up, eyes wide. Her gaze was already on you, sharp and bright, waiting to see your reaction.
Your mouth fell open, but no words came out. "Wha—" Air caught painfully in your throat, making you gasp before a cough burst out of you. You bent forward, clutching the tray to your chest as your chest heaved with little choking fits. Tears welled in your eyes from the harshness of it, your cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment.
Khloris let out a small laugh, the sound rich and amused as she reached over and patted your back gently. "Easy, easy," she chuckled. "Didn't mean to kill you with gossip."
You finally caught your breath, sucking in a shaky inhale as you wiped at your watering eyes with the back of your hand. Khloris held out her wine cup toward you with a little wiggle of her fingers, bracelets jingling softly.
"Here. Sip," she said, her tone warm but teasing.
You shook your head quickly, voice hoarse. "No, thank you..."
She raised a brow, lips curving into a sly smile before pulling the cup back to herself. "Suit yourself."
She took a long, slow sip, her eyes locked on you over the rim. The candlelight flickered across her cheekbones, making her look even sharper, almost fox-like in the dim glow. When she set the cup down, she tilted her head slightly.
"So it's true then?" she began again, her voice sing-song sweet. "You've been bought?"
You swallowed thickly, fingers fumbling with the edge of the tray resting in your lap. "I—I don't know what you mean," you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady as you traced the chipped wood with your thumb.
Khloris snorted softly, a small, humorless sound that made your shoulders tense. She leaned forward, close enough that you could smell the warm spice of her perfume, and her light brown eyes narrowed playfully.
"Don't play dumb," she said, her voice low and teasing. "Word travels fast in places like these." Her lips curled into a knowing smile. "I know the prince bought your virginity."
Your breath stilled in your chest, the tray slipping slightly from your lap before you caught it with trembling hands. The sound of thunder boomed outside, echoing in your ribs like a warning drum.
Khloris only smiled wider, her eyes glittering with amused delight as she reached for her wine again, watching you over the rim like a cat who had just cornered its favorite mouse.
Your breath caught. You didn't answer. Couldn't. The way she said bought made your skin crawl, like you were nothing more than an item on a shelf. Maybe that was true. Maybe it always had been.
But you snapped out of it quickly, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you lifted your chin just slightly, trying to keep your voice light.
"Then... why'd you ask," you mumbled, your lips curling into a small pout as you traced the tray's rim with your fingertip. "If-If you already knew...?"
Khloris' smirk widened, her eyes softening with amusement as she tilted her head back against the cushion.
"I couldn't help it," she purred, swirling her wine lazily in its cup. "Your reactions... gods, they're just too cute."
You flushed, dropping your gaze to your lap. Heat crawled up your neck and pooled in your cheeks, making your chest feel too tight.
The woman leaned back further, the candlelight catching on her gold jewelry, making her look like a queen lounging in the dark. She studied you for a moment longer, silent and thoughtful, before she shook her head slightly and raised her cup to her lips again.
"Men are fools," she said through quiet sips, her voice low and tinged with tired wisdom. "Don't let this place eat you alive before he comes back."
Her words lingered between you, mixing with the thunder rumbling outside and the soft patter of rain against the glass. You swallowed hard, clutching the tray tighter, unsure how to respond.
But before you could, a faint breeze swept past your cheek, carrying with it a warm scent of vanilla and sandalwood. It wrapped around you, sweet and soft, making your breath hitch.
A small shadow fell across the table, hovering above you.
"Aww," came a sultry voice, gentle and teasing. "Hope I didn't make you wait long, love~"
You and Khloris both looked up at the same time.
Standing there was a tall woman with pale, almost porcelain skin. Her hair fell in thick waves of gold down her shoulders, catching the candlelight like threads of honey. Soft blue eyes peered down at Khloris, crinkling sweetly at the corners as she smiled. Her lips were painted a delicate rose color, and a thin silver chain looped around her neck, glinting whenever she moved.
You stood up immediately, nearly knocking the tray from your lap as you scrambled to your feet.
"Anemone," you said, breathless. The name tasted pretty in your mouth, soft like a prayer.
She tilted her head toward you, her smile brightening even more at the sound of her name, before her gaze returned to Khloris, warm and dripping with adoration.
"Hello, ____," Anemone purred softly, saying your name as her fingers reached out to brush against your cheek. Her touch was light, barely there, but it sent a shiver down your spine. Her thumb lingered for just a moment beneath your jaw before she glided past you, the scent of vanilla and warm skin wrapping around you like a hug.
She moved with such effortless grace, her hips swaying slightly as she reached Khloris and, without hesitation, settled straight onto her lap. The older woman let out a small, pleased hum, her hands coming up to rest against Anemone's waist as she looked up at her with an amused, gentle smile.
"You're late," Khloris teased, her voice low with warmth.
Anemone just smirked down at her, one of her delicate hands reaching out to grasp Khloris' chin, thumb stroking along her bottom lip before tilting her face up. She leaned down slowly, her golden hair spilling forward like a curtain as she pressed her lips to the edge of Khloris' jaw, dragging them lightly across her skin.
"Hmm..." she murmured softly, her voice vibrating against Khloris' neck. "I hope I wasn't stressing you out... causing you any trouble."
Her gaze flicked sideways to you, sharp and teasing all at once.
"Especially with this pretty thing here," she purred. "You know... the prince's little treasure."
Your eyes widened as you stumbled over your words, heat burning up your chest into your cheeks. "I—I'm not—He's not—I mean, it's been days... I haven't even seen him since—since that night and—"
You cut yourself off, your voice strangled and small, staring down at your feet as your fingers twisted a frayed hem of your chiton.
Both women chuckled softly at your reaction.
Khloris leaned forward to rest her chin on Anemone's chest, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Gods, she's adorable, isn't she?" she said, laughter warm and teasing in her voice.
Anemone smiled down at you, tilting her head as her fingers continued stroking along Khloris' jaw. "Mm... Absolutely precious."
Their laughter wrapped around you like silk—warm, soft, and just a little mocking. But somehow, it didn't feel cruel. Just... familiar. Like the teasing of women who knew too much about the world and saw you still learning how to breathe in it.
You puffed out a small breath, cheeks hot as you looked away from them. Your fingers twisted tighter in your chiton, your shoulders curling in slightly.
"...Everyone's been teasing me lately," you muttered under your breath, voice soft and a little bitter. "As if the prince would just... walk in here again. It's been days."
Your words hung heavy in the air, mixing with the crackle of the hearth and the quiet laughter of the two women. Thunder rumbled outside, low and long, making the windows shake in their frames.
And then... the door creaked open.
A gust of cold air swept through the lounge, carrying with it the smell of rain and wet earth. You glanced up instinctively, expecting to see another customer, another drunk sailor dripping water onto the rugs.
But your breath caught in your throat.
Telemachus stood in the doorway, soaked from head to toe. His curls clung to his forehead in dripping spirals, water sliding down the strong lines of his jaw and neck, soaking into the collar of his tunic. His chest rose and fell, his breath coming out in little huffs like he'd been running. Rain dripped from his lashes, clinging to them like tiny diamonds.
And his eyes... gods, his eyes landed on you the moment he stepped inside.
They widened, dark and soft all at once, relief flooding his face as his shoulders dropped. His lips pulled up into a small, shy smile, trembling at the edges as he let out a quiet, shaky breath.
" ____," he whispered, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
Your mouth fell open, a small gasp slipping out before you could stop it. Your chest tightening painfully, your heart thudding so hard it almost hurt.
Anemone let out a low, delighted purr. "Mm... speak of Hades," her voice dripped with amusement. "Or perhaps... Hermes delivered that one quick."
Khloris chuckled under her breath, her eyes glinting with quiet delight as she tilted her head to watch you. "Well... don't just stand there with your mouth open, dove," she murmured, smirking. "Your prince is waiting."
Your breath caught in your chest as you looked back at him. Telemachus was already moving toward you, his boots leaving little puddles across the worn wooden floor. His shoulders shook slightly, whether from the cold or from something else, you couldn't tell. Drops of rain slid down his cheeks like tears, clinging to his lashes before falling onto his already-soaked tunic.
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the rain on him—earthy and cold, mixed with the faint scent of clean wool and smoke that always clung to his cloak.
"...____..." he whispered again, voice cracking at the edges like he hadn’t spoken in hours. "Gods... I..."
Your hands reached for him before you could think, trembling as they lifted toward his face, desperate to touch him, to wipe away the rain and prove he was real. But halfway there, you froze. Your chest tightened, heat rising to your cheeks as you snatched your hands back against your chest.
You looked down quickly, your fingers curling into the fabric of your chiton, your shoulders curling in on themselves.
I can't, you thought, shame burning through you, recalling where you were at the moment.
When you dared to glance up again, Telemachus' gaze had softened even more. His eyes flicked down to your hands before returning to your face, dark and warm all at once. His lips parted, like he wanted to say something, but no words came out.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to clear your throat. Your voice came out small and shaky.
"D-Did you... uh... did you come to see... me...?" you asked softly, your words barely louder than the rain drumming against the windows.
Telemachus let out a small, breathless laugh, his chest rising and falling as he reached up to scratch the back of his neck. His fingers tangled in the wet curls there, pushing them back slightly as he ducked his head, his cheeks flushing pink despite the cold.
"Yes," he breathed, his voice still rough and shy. "I... I did. I wanted to... but I wasn't sure how soon... and then the days... they just... they just kept passing by..."
His sentence trailed off, his hand falling back to his side as he looked at you, eyes flickering over every inch of your face like he was memorizing it all over again.
Before you could gather the courage to speak up, a voice cut through the quiet.
"Gods, this is painful to watch," Khloris tutted, her tone thick with teasing annoyance as she leaned back into the cushions with a dramatic sigh.
Anemone hummed in agreement, her pale blue eyes flicking down at Khloris with a lazy smile. "Mm... so dramatic, these two," she purred softly, her fingers brushing along Khloris' jaw before slipping back into her hair.
Without warning, Anemone leaned down and pressed her lips to Khloris', capturing her mouth in a slow, deep kiss. It wasn't long, but it burned hot, making your cheeks flush just from witnessing it. Khloris' hand slid up to cup Anemone's neck, her fingers threading into the blonde waves as she pulled her closer, deepening it just slightly before they pulled apart.
Anemone was the first to break away, her chest rising and falling with quiet, shaky breaths. Her lips were red and kissed-swollen as she smiled down at Khloris, their foreheads brushing lightly for a fleeting moment of intimacy. "I'll be back~"
Then she turned to you, her smile morphing into something bright and playful as she reached out, her cool fingers wrapping around your trembling hands. Before you could react, she tugged you away, the tray clattering softly against the floor as you stumbled away from Telemachus.
"Come on, little dove," she said, her voice airy as she began pulling you down the hall. Her grip was gentle but firm, her bracelets jingling softly with each step. Over her shoulder, she called out with a sly grin, "I shouldn't be long."
Her gaze flicked back toward Telemachus, who stood frozen in place, still dripping rain onto the wooden floor.
"The room will be ready in a sec, your highness," she added teasingly before turning back forward, leading you down the dim corridor lit only by flickering wall lanterns and the faint, muffled echoes of thunder outside.
Your heart raced in your chest, every beat thudding louder than your footsteps as you tried to calm your breathing, feeling her fingers still wrapped around yours, warm and steady.
.☆.
.✩.
.☆.
Some time later, you found yourself standing in front of one of the private rooms, your nerves jittery under your skin like trapped lightning. Anemone gave your hands a reassuring squeeze before letting go, reaching out to push open the wooden door with a quiet creak.
She glanced back at you with a soft, almost sisterly smile. "Remember... relax your shoulders, keep breathing, and don't forget to listen to him too, alright?" she whispered, her thumb brushing your knuckles. She handed you a small tray; it held two clay cups, a jug of wine, and a little bottle of rose oil. "For... you know," she murmured with a wink, giving the bottle a little tap.
Your cheeks burned hot as you nodded quickly, clutching the tray with both hands.
Anemone's smile turned playful as she leaned down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. "You'll be fine, little dove," she hummed before pushing you further inside and stepping back into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft click.
The room felt warmer than the lounge, the hearth burning low in the stone fireplace, filling the space with a soft orange glow. The faint crackle of flames mixed with the quiet drip of rain still sliding down the shuttered windows. It smelled like lavender soap and smoke... and him.
Your eyes flicked up to where Telemachus stood by the far wall, his back turned to you. He was pulling off his damp cloak, water droplets splattering onto the wooden floor beneath his boots. His shoulders moved with each breath, tense and strong under the dim flickering light.
You swallowed hard, quickly setting the tray of wine and oil down on the small table beside the bed before fidgeting with the edge of your chiton.
"I—I can help you... if you'd like..." you offered softly, your voice shaking as you took a hesitant step forward.
He didn't respond at first, only let out a shaky exhale as he unhooked his cloak fully, draping it over a chair. You turned away quickly to fetch a clean towel from the shelf near the bed, your hands fumbling clumsily with the folded linen.
When you turned back around—
Your breath caught in your throat.
Telemachus was shirtless now, his damp tunic pulled halfway up his torso as he struggled to peel it off. The firelight flickered across his skin, casting gold and bronze shadows over his chest and stomach. You could see the strong lines of his shoulders, the slight curve of his waist, the faint trail of hair leading down past where the tunic still clung to his hips.
Small droplets of rain slid down his chest, gathering in little rivulets along his ribs before dripping down to his—
Your eyes widened, heat flooding your face so fast you thought you might faint. Your throat closed up with a tiny squeak as your gaze darted away.
"I—I'm sorry!" you squeaked, clapping a hand over your mouth as you spun back around, nearly dropping the towel. Your chest burned with embarrassment, your ears hot as your mind scrambled with what you'd just seen.
Gods... he was... naked. And you were just standing there staring at him like a stupid little girl who'd never seen a man undress before.
Your knees felt weak. Your stomach twisted with heat and something sharp, something that made your chest feel too tight for your ribs.
Behind you, you heard him let out a small laugh under his breath. You swallowed hard, pressing your hand to your burning cheek as you peeked over your shoulder. He noticed your hesitancy and let out another laugh, raising one hand in reassurance.
"It's alright," he said quickly, his cheeks pink as he gestured down with a flustered little huff. "My... um... my bottom half is still covered."
You blinked, your eyes finally daring to flicker down. Instead of the loose wrap cloth most men wore beneath their tunics, he had on something... different.
It was tight along his calves but looser at the thighs, made of a soft-looking dark fabric with faint embroidery along the sides. They were tucked neatly into his boots, which sat discarded near the hearth, damp from the storm.
You stared for a moment, lips parting in quiet awe. "What... what is that?" you whispered without thinking, your curiosity overpowering your embarrassment as you stepped closer.
Telemachus glanced down at himself, a small, sheepish smile curling at the edges of his mouth. "Ah... these are called… anaxyrides," he explained, stumbling slightly over the foreign word. "They're... um... trousers. Pants. I just came back from a political envoy... we were bartering with a neighboring kingdom called Persia. The men there... they wear these instead of tunics."
Persia? Your eyes widened, the name ringing faintly in your memory from old merchant gossip and sailors' stories. You stepped even closer until you were right in front of him, your fingers reaching out before you could stop yourself. You brushed the fabric lightly, feeling how smooth and finely woven it was compared to the rough linen of your chiton.
"They're so... soft..." you breathed, your voice quiet with wonder. "Do they... have something for the top half too?"
Telemachus let out a soft laugh, the sound low and warm as his chest shook with it. His hair was still damp, little droplets falling from the ends of his curls and dripping onto his bare shoulders.
"They do," he said, his eyes crinkling slightly as he smiled down at you. "Some men wear a... Kandys," he explained, saying the word slowly so you could catch it. "It's like... a cloak with sleeves. Others wear tunics with attached sleeves. It's... practical, I suppose... especially for riding or traveling in bad weather."
You nodded absentmindedly, your fingers still toying with the edge of his pants before you realized what you were doing. Heat shot back up your neck and you yanked your hand away, pressing it to your chest as you ducked your head.
"I... I didn't mean to... touch..." you stammered, your words tangling together clumsily.
Telemachus only smiled, his cheeks flushed pink as he reached up to rub the back of his neck again. "It's alright," he murmured softly, his voice still hoarse from the rain and a little breathless. "I... I don't mind... if it's you."
You swallowed hard, your chest feeling too tight for your ribs. Heat burned up your neck, making your ears throb with it. You ducked your head quickly, staring down at the towel clutched in your hands.
Clearing your throat softly, you stepped closer and raised the towel toward him. "Um... here," you mumbled, your voice small as you unfolded it. "Let me... you're still dripping everywhere."
He blinked at you, startled by your sudden determination, but then a small, tender smile spread across his lips. He nodded once before bending forward slightly, lowering his head so you could reach.
Your hands moved carefully, brushing the towel through his damp curls, gently squeezing out the rainwater clinging to each strand. The smell of him filled your nose—warm earth, faint woodsmoke, and rain. You worked in quiet concentration, your fingers trembling every time they brushed against his skin by accident.
He stayed still under your touch, only letting out a quiet breath whenever your hands shifted to gather more of his hair in the towel. You felt his gaze on you—heavy, warm, unblinking. It made your chest flutter painfully, and you tried to ignore the way your heart slammed against your ribs every time his eyes followed the movement of your hands.
When you finished with his hair, you pulled back slightly, your gaze flicking to his face for just a second. He was smiling softly at you, eyes half-lidded and warm, like he was memorizing the feeling of you taking care of him.
Your breath hitched in your chest, and you quickly looked away, holding out the towel with shaking hands.
"Here, uh... y-you can... finish drying yourself..." you stammered, your voice breaking slightly as you forced your gaze down to the floor.
He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and quiet as he took the towel from you. "Thank you," he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as he began patting down his chest and shoulders.
You tried not to look. Gods, you tried. But your eyes flicked up despite yourself, catching sight of his bare chest, the way his skin glowed gold and bronze in the firelight, little droplets sliding down his collarbones and disappearing past his ribs—
Quickly, you snapped your eyes away, focusing on a dark knot in the wooden floorboards instead.
"So... um..." you blurted out, your voice too loud in the quiet room. "H-How... how was your trip...?"
He paused mid-motion, glancing up at you with those dark, gentle eyes. A small smile tugged at his lips as he let out a quiet, breathless laugh.
"...It was long," he said softly, his voice rough and warm all at once. "But... I think this makes it worth it."
Your heart fluttered painfully in your chest as you kept your eyes glued to the floor, praying he couldn't hear the way your breath shook with every exhale.
You swallowed hard, trying to gather yourself before forcing out, "G-Good. That's... uh... that's good..."
Your voice trailed off into silence. You felt your throat tighten, your chest squeezing painfully as your mind started spinning out of control.
Shit... shit... what do I say now?
Your eyes flicked to the side, staring at the cracks in the floorboards as panic rose in your chest.
Gods... what am I supposed to say to him? What do you even say to a man like him—a prince, no less—who's... who's technically a customer but... but we haven't even… but he... gods, what do I do?!
Your thoughts tangled together like knotted thread, hot and messy in your chest. You felt your breath starting to quicken, embarrassment prickling at your skin like needles.
But before you could drown yourself completely in the panic, Telemachus' voice broke through your spiraling thoughts.
"Um... would... would you like some wine...?" he asked softly, his words awkward and hesitant, like he wasn't sure if it was the right thing to say either.
Your eyes snapped up to him, wide with surprise. "Yes!" you blurted out, a little too loudly, the word bursting from your lips before you could stop it.
Your face burned with heat, and you quickly ducked your head again, clearing your throat as you tried to collect yourself.
"I—I mean... sure, I can go for a drink," you said, this time a little softer, a little less eager, though your voice still trembled at the edges.
When you dared to peek up at him again, you saw Telemachus smiling. Really smiling. His lips pulled up into a small, crooked grin as a quiet laugh escaped his chest, low and warm like the crackle of the hearth nearby.
He turned slightly, reaching for the clay pitcher on the tray and carefully pouring the deep red wine into one of the small cups. His hands shook just a little, droplets of wine sliding down the outside of the cup to drip onto his wrist, but he didn't seem to notice.
He glanced back at you, his curls falling slightly over his forehead as he held out the cup with a soft smile.
"Here," he said gently, his voice still tinged with shy laughter. "For you."
Your chest tightened painfully as you reached out with trembling fingers, brushing against his as you took the cup from his hands.
"Th... thank you."
Telemachus just smiled softly, nodding once before glancing around the room. He shifted slightly, tilting his head in a small gesture—an unspoken signal for you to sit down.
Your chest tightened, heat flooding your cheeks again as you moved to obey, settling down carefully on the edge of the bed. The sheets felt cool beneath your fingertips, smelling faintly of lavender soap and old wood. Telemachus sat down beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his bare skin.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You both lifted your cups to your lips at the same time, taking small, tentative sips.
The wine was warm and heavy on your tongue, fruity at first with hints of something sweet—fig or date maybe—but it turned bitter near the end, leaving a faint dryness at the back of your throat. You swallowed carefully, feeling it settle in your chest with a quiet warmth.
Silence wrapped around you both, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearth and the distant rumble of thunder outside. You could hear your heart pounding in your ears, your fingers curling tighter around the small clay cup.
Your thoughts spun wildly, tripping over themselves as you tried to think of something—anything—to say.
Ask about his trip again? No... stupid. Ask about the pants? Gods, no, you already did... thank him? For what, for drinking wine with you? Shit... shit...
You inhaled shakily, scolding yourself internally.
Say something. You have to say something. Don't chicken out, ____. Don't sit here like a trembling little rabbit...
Taking another small sip for courage, you exhaled softly, gathering the words in your chest before letting them slip out.
"So, I heard—" "We don't have to—"
Both your voices collided at once, words overlapping clumsily in the quiet room. You both froze, glancing at each other with wide eyes before small, shy laughs bubbled up from your chests.
Your cheeks burned even hotter as you ducked your head slightly. "You... you can go first," you mumbled, your fingers fidgeting with the rim of your cup.
But Telemachus shook his head quickly, his curls bouncing slightly with the motion. "No, please," he said softly, his voice earnest and a little breathless. "I insist. You first."
His dark eyes were locked on yours, warm and waiting, and you felt your chest tighten at how gently he was looking at you—like you were something fragile and precious, something he was afraid to touch too suddenly.
You swallowed, quickly tearing your gaze away before you got lost in his eyes completely. You stared down into your cup instead, watching the dark red wine ripple softly with each shaky breath you took.
Gathering your courage, you shifted slightly, your knees brushing his for just a fleeting second before you pulled them back. Your voice came out quiet and unsure, but you forced the words past the tightness in your throat.
"I... um... I heard..." you began, your fingers curling tighter around your cup, "I heard that... I've been... bought off rotation."
Your chest squeezed painfully at the confession, your heart hammering against your ribs as you risked a small glance up at him.
Telemachus' cheeks flushed immediately, his eyes widening as he sputtered, words tripping over themselves clumsily. "I—I didn't mean—I mean, I did, but I... gods, I hope it didn't feel controlling or... or like I was trying to... I just thought—"
You giggled softly before you could stop yourself, the sound slipping out and wrapping around the quiet room like a small candle flicker in the dark.
"It's okay," you whispered, shaking your head as your smile grew just a little. "I... I found it sweet... actually."
He blinked at you, his lips parting slightly as if he couldn't quite believe what you were saying.
You swallowed again, your eyes darting back down to your wine as you gathered your thoughts, trying to keep your voice from trembling.
"Like I told you before... I came to work here thinking..." you breathed out, your words quiet and almost shy, "thinking maybe I could... buy myself a better life someday. Save enough to leave... start somewhere new... but..."
You paused, glancing up at him through your lashes, your chest tightening at the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the room. The only person in the world.
"But... now... thanks to you... maybe... maybe I can," you finished softly, your voice cracking just a little at the end.
Telemachus swallowed thickly, his eyes glassy with emotion as his grip tightened slightly around his cup. His shoulders relaxed, his whole body seeming to sag with quiet relief.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, warm and thick, filled only by the quiet crackle of the hearth and the distant rumble of thunder outside.
Then, slowly, you inhaled, feeling your chest rise and fall as you forced yourself to meet his gaze fully.
"So..." you whispered, your fingers trembling around your cup, "did you... did you come tonight... to... to get your claim...?"
Your voice trailed off, your heart thudding painfully loud in your ears as you waited for his answer, praying silently that whatever he said... you could handle it.
For a moment, Telemachus was silent. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the wine cup until his knuckles turned white. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a small, soft smile.
"I..." he began, his voice quiet and rough, "I just... wanted to see you again." He shifted slightly on the bed, turning his body a little more toward you. His dark eyes flicked down to his hands before meeting yours again, glowing in the flickering firelight.
"We... we can do whatever you like," he whispered softly, his voice breaking just a little with shyness. "I didn't come here to... to claim anything. I just... I wanted to see you... to know you're okay."
Your heart fluttered so hard it almost hurt. You looked down quickly, blinking back the heat rising behind your eyes as a small smile tugged at your lips.
Not wanting him to see how much his words affected you, you lifted the wine cup to your lips, taking a slow sip to hide the way your mouth curved upward. The warm, fruity bitterness spread across your tongue and down your throat, settling heavy in your chest in the same place where his words now lived.
You lowered the cup slightly, your eyes flicking up to him through your lashes. His gaze was still on you, soft and unblinking, and for the first time in days... your chest felt light.
Warm.
Wanted.
Silence fell between you both for a while, soft and heavy like a blanket draped over your shoulders. You lifted your cup again, sipping the warm wine and feeling it spread heat through your chest, loosening something tight inside you.
Your eyes flicked sideways to him. Telemachus took a sip too, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, before lowering his cup into his lap.
He shifted slightly on the bed, his knee brushing against yours for just a fleeting second. His voice broke the quiet, rough and low, tinged with an awkward shyness that made your chest flutter.
"Do you... do you like the rain?" he asked softly.
You blinked, surprised by the question. Your eyes flicked up to his face, seeing his curls damp and curling messily around his forehead, his cheeks still pink from warmth and nerves. Slowly, you nodded, your gaze dropping back down to your cup.
"I... I think I do," you whispered shyly. "When I'm warm inside, like this."
Your smile was small and nervous as you said it, your fingers fidgeting against the clay rim of your cup. But when you glanced back up at him, Telemachus was smiling too. A soft, crooked little grin that made his eyes glow warmly under the flickering firelight.
"Me too," he murmured, his voice low and almost thoughtful. "Makes the world feel... softer."
Your chest tightened, warmth blooming through you so quickly it made you shiver. You took another sip of wine to hide the way your lips wanted to tremble.
A quiet pause settled over you both again before you swallowed and forced yourself to speak.
"How... um... how was your trip?" you asked softly, your voice trembling just slightly as you traced the rim of your cup with your fingertip, unable to sit still.
Telemachus let out a quiet sigh, his shoulders sinking a little as he rolled his eyes playfully. "It was... mostly old men arguing," he said, his voice dripping with tired humor. "But... there was this one merchant... from Tyre... kept trying to sell me a goat."
You blinked, your brows furrowing slightly. "A goat...?"
He nodded seriously, lips twitching with amusement. "He claimed it could predict the weather."
You stared at him, eyes wide in shock for a second before a small giggle bubbled up from your chest. You clapped your hand over your mouth, cheeks burning with heat as the giggle slipped out anyway.
"A goat?? That predicts rain??" you whispered, your voice cracking with quiet laughter.
Telemachus chuckled softly, nodding again. "Swore on his entire stock of wine it was true," he said, his smile widening as he watched your shoulders shake with laughter.
Your chest fluttered with warmth, the tension you hadn't realized you'd been holding melting from your shoulders. You lowered your hand slowly, your lips still curled into a smile, your breath coming out light and trembling with leftover giggles.
Warmth spread through your chest, wrapping around your ribs like gentle sunlight. For a moment, it was just you and him. No titles. No customers. Just two young people sitting by the fire, giggling about a goat that predicted the rain.
When you finally looked back up at him, Telemachus was staring at you. His eyes were soft, his lips parted slightly as if he'd forgotten how to breathe.
"Gods..." he whispered, his voice low and shaking with something thick and warm. "Your smile... it's beautiful."
Your smile faded into something softer, smaller, shy. The words sank deep into your chest, curling there like a small ember glowing warm against your ribs. You felt your breath catch, your heart squeezing so tightly it almost hurt.
The fire crackled softly beside you both, filling the room with the faint scent of woodsmoke and warmth. Rain tapped against the shutters in gentle, rhythmic beats, like fingertips drumming along the wood.
Everything felt quiet. Still. Like the whole world had gone silent just to watch you and him.
Telemachus' eyes flicked down to your lips, lingering there for a breath, two, before he leaned in slightly. He paused, his breath trembling against your cheek, his nose brushing yours. Waiting. Always waiting for you to make the final move... for you to choose him first.
Your stomach fluttered so hard you thought you might be sick. But you wanted him. Gods, you wanted him so badly it made your chest ache.
So you leaned in.
Your lips brushed his lightly, testing, soft as a whisper. His breath caught in his chest, his lips trembling against yours. The kiss tasted faintly of wine—sweet and bitter all at once—warm and heady, like something stolen and savored. Something you wanted again and again and again.
Your hands reached up before you could think, fingers trembling as they cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing lightly along the sharp lines of his cheekbones.
Telemachus let out a low sigh against your mouth, a sound that made your chest tighten with something hot and needy. He took it as a green light. Without breaking the kiss, his hands moved quickly, grabbing the cups from your laps and setting them aside onto the tray with a quiet clatter that made your heart jump.
Then his hands were on you—one sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, the other curling around your waist, pulling you closer with a sudden, desperate strength. His lips pressed harder against yours, tilting your head slightly as he deepened the kiss.
You gasped softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth before his tongue slipped past your lips, warm and trembling, tasting you like he couldn't believe he was allowed to.
Your head filled with nothing but him. His smell—rain and smoke and something clean. His warmth, wrapping around you like a blanket pulled tight. His touch, grounding and trembling all at once, like he needed you to breathe.
You felt your whole body soften into his hold, your chest pressing against his as his kisses grew hungrier, more desperate, tasting like a prayer whispered to the dark.
And gods... you wanted to answer every single one.
At some point, you weren't sure exactly how, he ended up above you. The bed dipped beneath your back as you sank into the sheets, the faint scent of lavender soap and old wood rising up around you.
Your chest heaved with every shaky breath, your arms reaching up without thinking, fingers curling around his shoulders as you pulled him down to you again.
Telemachus let out a small, desperate sound at the back of his throat as his lips found yours once more. His kiss was hungry, trembling, almost clumsy in its eagerness as he chased your mouth like he couldn't stand even a breath of distance between you.
Your head felt fuzzy, the leftover wine swirling warm and heavy in your stomach, mixing with the slow-growing heat that pooled low in your belly. Every brush of his lips made it throb stronger, every breathless sigh against your skin making your thighs clench together with quiet, aching need.
His kisses trailed down, brushing along your jaw, then lower to your neck. You felt his warm breath against your collarbone, his lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses there that made your stomach twist with something sharp and wanting.
Then you felt it—his hands bunching your chiton up around your hips, fabric sliding across your thighs, baring you to the cool air and his hot, trembling touch.
"Wait—!"you gasped out, your voice cracking as your hands shot down to grab his wrists.
Telemachus froze instantly, his chest heaving against yours as he lifted his head to look at you. His curls fell into his eyes, damp with sweat and rain. His cheeks were flushed pink, his lips kiss-swollen and parted, his breath coming out ragged and hot against your skin.
Your own chest rose and fell quickly as you sat up slightly on your elbows, staring up at him with wide, panicked eyes.
"I... I haven't—" you stuttered out, your voice shaking. "I haven't had a chance to... to freshen up..."
Telemachus blinked down at you, still panting softly, his brows furrowing in confusion as he tried to catch his breath. "Freshen up...?"
You swallowed hard, looking away as your cheeks burned hot with embarrassment. "I... I didn't get to... to prepare... or bathe... or... or anything," you whispered, your words trailing off into quiet shame. "I was... I was working all day... I-I didn't know... you'd come... tonight..."
Your fingers curled tighter in the sheets beneath you, your chest squeezing painfully as you stared down at the hem of your chiton bunched around your hips. Your heart thudded loud in your ears, your breath coming out in shaky, embarrassed little gasps as you waited for his reaction.
Telemachus just blinked down at you, his brows furrowing slightly like he was trying to process what you'd said. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths as he swallowed hard.
"Did... did you bathe this morning?" he asked quietly, his voice still rough and a little breathless.
You nodded quickly, your cheeks burning hot as you whispered, "Y-Yes, I did, but still—"
Before you could say anything else, he let out a quiet, shaky laugh. His lips curled into a crooked, almost sinful smile as he shook his head slightly.
"Gods..." he breathed out, his voice dropping lower, thicker. "I... I honestly wouldn't care if you didn't."
Your eyes widened, your mouth falling open with a small, shocked gasp. "W-What...?"
His gaze darkened further, his eyes flicking down to your lips and then lower, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip before he let out another quiet, breathless laugh.
"I... gods, I..." he stammered softly, his voice cracking with quiet desperation. "I don't care... about any of that. You could... you could taste like sweat... or work... or anything..."
Your breath hitched sharply at his words. Heat twisted low in your belly, sharp and fluttery all at once, shame and want mixing so violently it made your thighs press together until they ached. Gods... gods, what was he about to say...
"...and I'd still want to bury my face between your thighs until you're shaking so hard you forget your own name."
His grip tightened against your hips, fingers digging in just slightly as his eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and heavy with heat. Your breath caught painfully in your chest, a small, choked noise slipping out of your throat as your thighs clenched tighter beneath him. Your face burned so hot you felt lightheaded, your hands fisting in the sheets as shame and wanting twisted sharp and dizzying in your belly.
"T-Telemachus...!"
Before you could say anything else, his lips crashed into yours again, swallowing whatever shocked little gasp you made.
His kiss was rougher this time, desperate and trembling as his hand slid up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You felt his tongue slip past your lips, warm and wet, tasting you with slow, hungry strokes that made your head spin.
When he finally pulled back, both of you panting, his nose brushed against yours. His eyes were dark and blown wide with need, his curls falling around his face as he pressed his forehead to yours.
"I don't care." His voice was rough and low, trembling with quiet, desperate honesty. "I just... I just want you."
Your breath hitched, your chest squeezing painfully tight at his words. Before you could say anything, his lips were on yours again, softer this time, his kiss tasting like warm wine and quiet desperation.
Then his hands were moving down, sliding along your hips, bunching your chiton higher around your waist. His kisses trailed down your neck, hot and open-mouthed, until his breath fanned warmly against your belly.
You gasped softly, your fingers threading into his damp curls before suddenly tensing.
"Wait," you whispered, your voice coming out sharper than you meant.
Telemachus froze immediately. He glanced up at you, his eyes wide and worried, curls falling into his flushed face. "I... it's okay," he said quickly, trying to reassure you, his voice trembling with quiet urgency. "I don't mind. Gods, I'm a soldier, I've—"
"It's not that," you blurted out, cutting him off in your embarrassment. Your cheeks burned hot as you sat up slightly, your thighs pressing together under his hands.
He blinked up at you, confused. "Then... what is it...?"
Your throat felt tight, your chest squeezing painfully as you struggled to find the words. You looked away from him, down at where your hands twisted in the sheets.
"I just... I still feel bad... about last time," you whispered, your voice trembling with quiet shame. "I don't... I don't want it to be... like that again. You... you didn't get anything... and I..."
You swallowed hard, your words trailing off as your face burned hotter.
"I don't want it to be... just me again," you finished softly, your voice barely louder than the quiet patter of rain against the window.
Telemachus was silent for a long moment. You risked a glance up at him, your stomach twisting with anxiety, only to see him staring at you with wide, glassy eyes.
Then, slowly, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. He let out a quiet, breathless laugh, shaking his head slightly.
"Gods..." he whispered, his voice rough with something thick and warm. "You're really cute, you know that?"
Before you could respond, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Then he pulled away completely, shifting his weight back and standing up at the edge of the bed.
You blinked in surprise, your chest heaving slightly as you glanced around. You hadn't even noticed he'd moved you both to the center of the bed during all the kissing and shifting, the bedding dipping slightly beneath your hips where you now lay half reclined, your chiton bunched up around your thighs.
Telemachus stood above you, shirtless and flushed, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as he looked down at you, his dark eyes warm and unreadable.
His head tilted slightly, curls brushing his temple as he hummed low in his throat. "Fine," he said at last, voice rough but edged with something playful. "If you're insistent on making sure I'll... enjoy myself this time—" his mouth curved into a faint smirk, "—which, for the record, I did last time—then I'll teach you what I like."
Your stomach gave a nervous little twist, but before you could respond, his tone shifted—lower, edged with impatience. "But first..." His gaze dragged over you in a way that made your cheeks burn. "Can I... taste you?"
Heat rushed straight to your face, and you instantly covered it with your hands."Telemachus!" you hissed, your voice a mix of fluster and disbelief. "Stop saying stuff like that!"
He laughed—soft and warm, the sound curling down your spine—before catching your wrists and tugging your hands gently away from your face. "Why not?" he asked, smiling like he was enjoying your embarrassment far too much. "It's not the worst I could say... not the filthiest, either."
You glared at him weakly, murmuring under your breath, "...Still."
Telemachus let out a small sigh, though the corner of his mouth still twitched with amusement. "Fine. I'll stop teasing," he murmured—though the glint in his eyes made you doubt he meant it entirely.
Without another word, he lowered himself smoothly to his knees in front of you. Your breath caught, pulse skipping as his large hands found your hips, warm even through the bunched fabric of your dress.
Then, with effortless strength, he pulled you forward. The bed dipped beneath you as your body slid toward the edge of the bed, your knees parting slightly without thought. You hadn't realized how easily he could move you until now—how his grip was firm but not rough, guiding rather than forcing.
The heat in your stomach swirled, your thighs tensing as a wave of flutters rushed through you. Gods... he made it look so easy. And worse—part of you liked that he could.
Before you could even think to brace yourself—before your nerves could talk you into pulling away—he was on you.
The first brush of his mouth against you tore the air straight from your lungs. You gasped, sharp and shaky, your fingers darting into his hair before you even realized what you were doing. Your body tensed for a heartbeat, every muscle tightening in surprise—then it all melted, a slow, dizzy surrender that left you leaning back on your elbows.
The heat of his breath, the wet, smooth glide of his tongue—gods, it was too much too fast. A small, breathy moan slipped past your lips before you could swallow it down.
Telemachus groaned in return, low and deep, the sound vibrating against you in a way that made your back arch. You felt his hands tighten on your thighs, thumbs stroking once before his grip turned firmer, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
Your heart hammered, your thoughts scattering with every slow drag and swirl of his tongue. The warmth of his mouth, the faint scrape of his stubble against your skin—it was all you could focus on. The edges of the room blurred; the rain outside faded. Every part of you narrowed down to him, his mouth, the way he seemed to savor you like this was something he’d been starving for.
And gods help you, the more you felt, the less you could think at all.
The heat in your belly was building far too quickly, curling tight and low until it felt like every nerve in your body was strung up and trembling. Your nails found his scalp without thinking, dragging lightly through the damp strands of his hair, and another moan poured from your lips—high and breathless.
It turned into something closer to a squeal when he pressed his face in closer, his grip on your thighs firm as he guided your legs higher. The new angle made you shiver, your breath catching as his tongue moved lower, teasing and tasting as if he wanted every inch of you—like he couldn't stand the idea of leaving any part untouched.
Your head fell back, mouth falling open as your thoughts dissolved into nothing but sensation. And then, without warning, his mouth shifted—his lips closing around your nub and sucking with a slow, deliberate pull that sent a shock through your whole body.
The climax hit you before you had time to brace for it, crashing over you in a wave that left your toes curling and your thighs shaking against his hold. Your body jolted, shivers racking your spine as the warmth spilled and spiraled outward, and he didn't stop—he stayed with you through it, tongue working gently until the last of your moans faded to trembling gasps.
Only then did Telemachus lift his head, pressing one final, lingering lick against you before pulling back. His lips were wet, his breathing uneven, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—looked almost dazed as he stared up at you.
His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths, each inhale still tinged with your scent. He dragged his tongue slowly across his lips, like he couldn't help himself, catching the last taste of you before sitting back on his heels. The room was silent except for the ragged rhythm of your panting and his—two sets of lungs trying to settle after something that felt like it had stolen the air from both of you.
"...Was it okay?" he asked finally, his voice low and unsure in a way that almost made your heart ache.
You gave him a wobbly, breathless smile, raising a shaky thumbs-up before sighing, "The... best."
That earned you a grin—soft, boyish, so achingly sweet it didn't match the heat still pulsing in your veins. He stood then, stretching slightly, and your gaze followed before you could stop it. The shift in his stance gave you the first bare, dizzying glimpse—
You swallowed the yelp that tried to escape, your fingers curling against the sheets. Telemachus was nude now, the loose Persian trousers gone without you even noticing when.
He was... above average, enough to make your stomach twist at the thought of taking him, but not so much it looked unreal. Slightly thicker than most, with a fullness that made your breath hitch just looking at it, the weight of him solid, grounding. He curved slightly upward—natural for someone with his lean, wiry strength—heavier at the base before tapering into a flushed, well-defined head. His skin there was the same golden-tan as the rest of him, maybe even a shade darker, faint veins tracing the length in a way that made your mouth go dry. A soft, dark thatch of curls framed the base, trimmed short—practical, clean, touched by the heat and work of the day.
The sight alone had your thighs pressing together before you could think, the ache in your stomach deepening.
Your breath caught when his hand moved, wrapping loosely around himself, his fingers curling in a slow, deliberate stroke. His eyes found yours, darker now—heavy-lidded, voice low and rough when he spoke.
"Do you like what you see?"
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips before you could stop yourself, the motion feeling too obvious, but you couldn't lie—not with your pulse pounding in your ears like this. You gave the smallest nod, and he smirked.
"Good."
He stepped closer, the steady motion of his hand on himself never faltering, and extended his other hand toward you. You hesitated only a moment before taking it, his palm warm and calloused as he gently drew you up onto your knees.
"It's alright," he murmured, a small smile ghosting across his lips. "You won't hurt me. Don't be embarrassed."
Then he guided your hands, slow and patient, until they rested over his own. Your breath hitched at the contact—the startling heat of him against your skin, solid and heavy, the thickness filling your palm as if it were made to fit there. He let you feel the rhythm, the way his fingers moved, the faint twitch beneath your touch.
Your breathing grew heavier without meaning to, each exhale trembling as you curled your fingers slightly, the smooth skin sliding under your palm. He was hot—almost too hot—and you could feel the steady pulse of him, strong and alive, making your own chest tighten with something you couldn't quite name.
You kept the motion going, finding a rhythm that matched the way he’d shown you. After a moment, his hand slipped away entirely, leaving yours alone to move over him. His head tilted back just slightly, lips parting, but his eyes stayed on you—lidded and hazy—as if he couldn't bear to look away.
"That's it... just like that," he murmured, voice rough and low, each word sinking into your skin like heat.
Something in you eased at the sound—made you bolder. You straightened a little on your knees, leaning in so you could brace your free hand on the solid muscle of his thigh. The warmth there seeped into your palm, and without thinking, your fingers traced a slow path over the skin, feeling the faint flex and shift beneath. You let yourself rest against him slightly, the closeness making your pulse jump.
His breath hitched, a soft, low moan slipping out before he caught it, his hips giving the smallest push into your hand. You felt the change instantly—slick warmth gathering at the tip, a bead of it spilling and trailing down over your fingers. It made your grip tacky, every stroke gliding smoother as you worked over him, the heat and weight in your palm impossible to ignore.
Then Telemachus let out a low, shaky groan, his hips twitching just barely into your hand. "Higher..." he breathed, his voice ragged but gentle, guiding your hand upward with a slight nudge. "Focus more... on the tip—yeah, right there."
You obeyed, tightening your fingers just a little as you shifted your strokes higher, giving him a slow squeeze right beneath the head. Barely two pumps in, you glanced up at him with wide eyes and asked softly, "Like that? Is that okay?"
The reaction was instant. He jerked—hard—and his hand shot down to still yours, pulling you away with sudden urgency. For a split second, panic flared in your chest, but the look on his face wasn’t shame—it was something else entirely. His cheeks were flushed a deep, almost feverish pink, and his eyes darted away as he turned his head, one hand covering his face.
You blinked, confused, until he groaned under his breath, peeking back at you through his fingers. "...It is," he managed to stammer, voice wrecked.
Leaning forward a little, you tilted your head. "Then... what's wrong?"
He gave a breathless, almost pained laugh, dropping his hand from his face as his eyes met yours again—dark, hot, and barely holding on. "If you keep looking at me like that, I'll embarrass us both."
You just hummed softly, fighting the smile pulling at your lips, before settling back and wrapping your hand around him again. This time you kept your gaze lowered, focusing on the slow, steady movement, your strokes slick and deliberate.
His moans started up again—low and unsteady—spilling into the warm, quiet air between you, each one sending another shiver down your spine.
The longer you worked him, the more Telemachus' control seemed to unravel. His hips twitched with every pass of your hand, tiny, involuntary thrusts that made the slick glide between your fingers messier, wetter. The soft, tacky sound of it mixed with the warm, breathless groans pouring from his throat—sometimes your name, sometimes curses low enough that you only caught the rough edges of them.
The heat of him seemed to bleed into you, creeping up your arms and settling low in your stomach until you realized your own thighs were pressing together, rubbing just slightly with each shift of your knees. Your breathing had picked up without you noticing, every inhale shaky, every exhale catching in your throat.
Your focus stayed on him—on the way his head tipped back when you hit the right spot, on the little stutters in his breath when your thumb teased just under the head, on the sticky dribble slicking your hand as he grew heavier in your palm.
You were so caught in it—so utterly wrapped up in watching him—that you didn't even notice yourself leaning closer until you were right there, close enough to see the faint pulse of a vein along the side of him, to feel the heat rolling off his skin in waves.
Some reckless, curious part of you wondered—what would he taste like? Would the heat under your palm be the same on your tongue? Would it be as heavy, as startling, when your lips touched him instead of your hand? The thought was enough to make your stomach flip, heat pooling low in your belly.
You dared a quick glance up at him. Telemachus' head was tipped all the way back, throat bared, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven pulls of breath. Every few seconds, a groan—low, drawn out—slipped past his lips, his voice breaking in places like he couldn't quite hold it together.
Before you could stop yourself, before you could even think to second-guess, you leaned in. Just a careful, tentative brush of your mouth against him, a kitten lick along the tip before your lips closed in a small, shy suckle. The taste was warm, faintly bitter, sharp in a way that made your tongue tingle.
Telemachus gasped—loud, ragged—his back arching as his hips jolted forward in a sudden, uncontrolled stutter. The reaction was so sharp, so immediate, that it startled you, and before you could even decide if you wanted to do it again, his hands were on you, gently but firmly pulling you back, his chest rising fast as if he'd just been dragged from the edge of something he wasn't ready to tumble over.
Telemachus' grip lingered for a moment, his palms warm against your skin as if he needed that steady hold to ground himself. His head dipped slightly, breath shuddering out through parted lips. You could hear him mumbling under his breath—half to himself, half to you—as if trying to talk his pulse back down.
"Gods..." he exhaled, tilting his head, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. It was tired, but not in a weary way—in that slow, deliberate, dangerous way that made your stomach flip. His eyes dragged over you, still dark and heavy, and his voice came low, rough.
"...I don't want to... finish too soon," he murmured, the corner of his mouth quirking like he was both warning you and making a promise. We can try that another time... promise."
Before you could answer, he bent at the waist, one hand lifting to lightly cradle the bottom of your chin, his thumb brushing along the edge. The touch was soft—reverent almost—and it held you there just long enough for him to press a quick, warm kiss to your lips. Then, with a quiet hum, he eased you back, guiding you down onto the mattress.
Your spine sank into the bed, the sheets cool under you, and in the next breath he was there again—settled between your thighs, his presence crowding out everything else. The space between you closed in until it was nothing but heat, the scent of rain still clinging to him, and the heavy sound of your mingled breaths filling the warm, quiet air.
His breath was warm against your skin as he dipped his head, the tip of his nose brushing along the slope of your neck. You shivered when his lips followed, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve where your shoulder met your jaw. Every so often, his tongue flicked out, tasting your skin as though he couldn’t help himself, leaving tingles in his wake.
"I have to prepare you for me..." he murmured, the words low and rough, ghosting against your ear.
His hands slid down your sides in slow, deliberate strokes, the heat of his palms burning through the thin fabric. He squeezed lightly at your hips before guiding your knees up, urging you to cradle his waist. The movement pulled him closer, pressing the solid weight of his body into yours, his warmth seeping into every inch of you.
"Relax for me," he whispered against your ear, his voice coaxing and almost pleading.
One of his hands drifted lower, slipping between your thighs. The first gentle press of his fingers there had you exhaling shakily, hips twitching despite yourself. You hooked one leg higher over his hip, letting him in without thinking, and his fingertips found that sensitive spot—your nub—rubbing slow, careful circles that sent a deep, aching warmth curling low in your stomach.
Telemachus' voice came soft and sweet above you, the kind of tone that made your chest feel warm and shaky all at once. "Am I... doing okay?" he murmured, like he was afraid to break whatever spell had wrapped around you both.
You managed a hum, though it trembled, your lips parting on a shaky breath. He smiled faintly, brushing his nose against your temple. "Good... because I'm about to stretch you out a little."
The words had your stomach twisting, anticipation and nerves tangling together. Before you could think too hard about it, you felt his fingers drift lower, parting you gently before pressing in.
A startled gasp slipped out—your hips twitching at the strange, unfamiliar fullness. It felt... weird at first, the pressure foreign, but his warm mouth pressed to your cheek, then your jaw, his voice spilling in low, steady murmurs against your skin, kept you from tensing.
And then—gods—he found it. That spot inside you that made your breath catch and your thighs twitch. Heat flooded through you, slick quickly gathering as his fingers worked with slow, deliberate care.
"That's it," he cooed low into your ear, his breath hot, "there you go..."
Your head tipped back at the sound of his voice, your nails curling lightly into his shoulders as you moved against his touch without meaning to. It wasn't until his mouth latched onto the side of your neck, biting and sucking hard enough to make you gasp, that his hand finally stilled and he pulled back—your skin tingling and your pulse racing.
Telemachus finally lifted his head, your skin still buzzing where his mouth had been. His lips were flushed, his breathing heavy as he lingered over you for just a moment longer before pulling back completely.
The loss of his warmth made you whimper before you could stop yourself, watching as he stepped away from the bed. His movements were unhurried, almost deliberate, as he crossed to the small table near the wall. You followed him with your eyes, chest rising and falling, still catching your breath.
He picked up a small vial, working the cork free with a quiet pop. The rich, earthy scent of the oil reached you even from where you lay, and your stomach fluttered when you saw him pour some into his palm. His long fingers glistened as he rubbed it over himself, his touch slow, almost teasing—like he was giving you the chance to watch every second of it.
By the time he returned to the bed, your pulse had quickened again. He knelt between your thighs, his knee nudging one open just a bit farther, the heat of him radiating against your skin.
His hand wrapped around himself, stroking lazily for a few seconds more before he leaned forward. The first brush of his tip against you made your breath stutter—warm, slick, and heavy. He slid it up and down your slit in slow, deliberate passes, smearing your wetness over himself.
Your leg twitched on instinct, toes curling at the sensation, and his eyes flicked up to catch the movement. He lingered like that for a few moments longer—drawing out every brush, every shiver—before finally tilting himself down, the head pressing gently against your entrance.
Telemachus' gaze lifted to yours, his eyes dark but searching, and for a moment, neither of you moved. "Are you ready?" his voice was low, almost shaking with how much he was holding back. "Are you... okay?"
Your breath caught, your chest rising fast, and you managed a breathless, "Yes."
He held your thighs a little tighter, his knuckles pale against your skin, and eased forward—slowly, carefully. The stretch made you tense, a faint sting sparking under the warmth, and you bit your lip hard to keep from gasping too sharp.
He froze instantly, head dipping low as if grounding himself. "T-Tell me if it's too much, he murmured, his voice unsteady but firm, almost like a vow. "I'll stop. I swear to the gods, I'll stop."
That care—that dominance laced with control—made your throat tighten. You shook your head quickly, voice pitching high, "No—yes—yes, I'm okay... keep going."
His grip shifted, thumbs stroking over your skin in silent reassurance as he pushed in deeper, each inch stealing the air from your lungs. Your body slowly softened around him, and a low, shaky groan spilled from his throat at the feeling.
When his hips finally pressed flush to yours, both of you let out sounds that tangled together—your breathless moan and his deep, throaty groan filling the warm air between you.
"You good?" he asked again, his eyes locked on yours like the answer meant everything.
You swallowed hard, nodding fast, voice almost breaking, "Just—move... please."
He started slow—good slow—the kind of pace that let you feel every inch of him, the heat, the weight, the way he filled you so completely. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin, and it took you a moment to realize he was murmuring your name in between soft, shaky moans.
The sound made your stomach clench, and before you even thought about it, your body did too—tightening around him. His breath caught, and a low, rough growl vibrated against your neck as his hand gripped your thigh tighter, hitching it higher around his hip like he couldn’t get deep enough.
"Gods..." he groaned, the word breaking as his hips drove forward harder. The slow rhythm started to crack, his thrusts coming sharper, more urgent, and each one knocked the air out of you in a shuddering gasp.
His sounds—moans, half-choked breaths, the occasional curse—poured against your ear and down your spine, making every nerve in you hum. The warmth in your stomach swelled with each push and pull, his body heavy and hot over yours, the bed creaking faintly beneath the both of you.
Your mind blurred until there was nothing left but the feeling of him—the stretch, the heat, the way he held you like you were something he couldn't let go of. Everything else once again—the fire, the rain, the quiet—fell away until there was only Telemachus, and the way he was making you feel.
Telemachus bent lower over you, his grip firm as he hooked one of your legs high around his waist, opening you up to him even more. The change in angle made you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets, and then his mouth was on yours—hot, desperate, messy.
It wasn't a neat kiss. It was all heat and need, his lips sliding against yours, breaths mingling, the occasional soft sound slipping between you when he caught your bottom lip and sucked. His hips rocked into you with every kiss, slow enough to make you feel it deep, but hard enough to make your toes curl.
His hands wandered—everywhere—running along your sides, over the curve of your hip, then sliding up under your tunic. He kept pushing it higher and higher, his palms warm against your bare skin until they found your breasts. He cupped them fully, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your back arched into him.
You barely had time to catch your breath before he tugged the tunic up and over your head, tossing it somewhere beside the bed without looking. His mouth dropped to your neck instantly, hot and wet, leaving open-mouthed kisses and little sucks that made your skin tingle and your breath hitch.
"T-Telemachus." You gasped his name, the sound breaking into a stutter as his mouth moved against your skin. Your fingers tangled in his hair without thinking, nails lightly scraping his scalp.
You didn't even realize it was coming until it hit you—your whole body tightening, a choked moan spilling from your lips as your legs locked around his waist. The rush of it stole your breath, heat blooming fast and sharp low in your stomach before spreading everywhere, leaving you shivering under him.
Telemachus' hips faltered, then jerked rougher, his voice breaking into a curse as he buried his face in your neck. He pulled back just in time, the sudden emptiness making you whine before you felt the warm splatter of him across your stomach. It was hot, startling in its intensity, and your eyes blinked wide in surprise.
You let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. "Was I really that good?"
His answering grin was flushed and tired as he reached for your discarded tunic, wiping your stomach with careful, unhurried swipes. Once you were clean, he tossed it aside again and collapsed beside you, still catching his breath, the bed dipping under his weight.
He rolled onto his side to face you, and you mirrored him without thinking, the two of you lying there in the soft afterglow, the air warm with the smell of sweat and rain. For a while, neither of you spoke—just the sound of your breathing evening out, eyes locked as if you were trying to memorize each other.
When Telemachus finally did speak, his voice was gentle, almost hesitant. "How... did you end up here? Working at the brothel?" There was no judgment in it, no sharp edge—just quiet curiosity, like he wanted to understand.
You froze, your fingers curling into the sheets between you. The question hung in the air, heavier than the storm outside. But slowly, you let yourself answer.
"I was just... a regular Ithacan girl," you began, your voice low. "My mother died giving birth to me. My father... he never came home from Troy. So my grandparents raised me. We had a farm—nothing big, just enough to get by."
You swallowed, looking away. "They got sick when I was about fifteen. I tried to take care of them, but... they were gone within months. I lost them. Lost the farm. And that was it."
Your lips twisted faintly, though there was no humor in it. "Even though I was young—still a virgin—I had nothing. No dowry, no family. No one was going to take me as a wife. And even if they wanted to, who's to say they'd believe I was untouched?"
You hesitated, then let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Before I came here, there was this young low-lord who showed some interest in me. But another girl wanted him, too. She spread rumors—said I'd already been with men, that I'd been... sullied. It didn't matter that it wasn't true. The rumor stuck... It always does."
You met his eyes again, something raw flickering in your chest. "So I chose this. The brothel. At least here, I could have some control... however grim it was."
Silence filled the room again, thicker this time. He didn't rush to fill it, didn't tell you you were wrong or pity you. He just looked at you, as if weighing every word you'd said, and the quiet stretched like a held breath.
Telemachus' gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer before he finally looked away, his jaw shifting as though he was chewing over words that wouldn't come easily. When they did, they came low and rough.
"...I'm sorry."
Your brows furrowed faintly. "For what?"
"I didn't think," he admitted, eyes fixed somewhere near your shoulder instead of your face. "I only saw you. Not what you had to lose to be here."
You tried to wave it off with a small shrug, your voice softer. "You're a man. How could you know?"
His head turned back toward you, expression sharpening—not with anger, but with a kind of quiet conviction. "I'm not just a man," he said, voice steady in a way that made the words sit heavier in the air. "I'm a prince. If I can't imagine the lives of my people... if I can't put myself in their shoes, feel what they feel—then I'm not fit to lead them."
For a moment, neither of you moved. The weight of his words made something twist in your chest—because he meant it, you could see that. Eventually, his hand shifted, brushing your arm in a gesture that felt more like a promise than comfort.
When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a different timbre—not as a lover lying in your bed, but as the man who would one day wear a crown. "I want you to leave here," he said plainly. "Move into the palace."
You blinked at him, startled. "As what? You know what people will say—"
"As my concubine," he interrupted, not flinching from the word. "It's not marriage. I know that. And I won't pretend it would make you my equal in the eyes of everyone. But there are protections—real ones. Laws that keep you safe."
He shifted closer, his tone firm but earnest. "Draconian law says a man can kill anyone who tries to take what's his—even a concubine. No one could touch you without answering to me. You'd have a place. Food. A home. And you wouldn't be hidden away in some dark corner."
His gaze softened just slightly. "I want you safe. I want you seen. And if I'm not allowed to love you openly..." His thumb brushed against your jaw. "...then I'll make it as close as I can."
Your lips parted, but nothing came out at first—just a small, shaky exhale. The offer sat between you, heavy and almost unreal, and you could feel your pulse hammering in your throat.
"Why would you..." You swallowed hard, brows knitting. "You're too important, Telemachus. You can't— I'm... I'm just—"
The rest of the sentence never made it past your tongue. His mouth was on yours before you could finish, warm and sure, silencing every protest you tried to form.
When he pulled back just far enough to speak, his breath brushed against your lips. "You're not 'just' anything," he said, almost fierce. "You're mine... if you let me."
You stared at him, wide-eyed, his words echoing in your head. Mine... if you let me. Your thoughts spun so fast you could hardly keep up. Do I even deserve this? After everything—after where I've been, what I've done—how could I?
And yet... the way he looked at you, as if none of it mattered, made the question feel smaller.
Your answer wasn't words.
You leaned in, closing the space between you, your lips pressing to his again—soft at first, then deeper, steadier. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there like he'd never let you go.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were smiling—quiet, secret smiles meant only for each other.
This time, there was no hesitation. You'd made your choice.
And from the way Telemachus' arms wrapped around you, tucking you against his chest as if to shield you from the whole world, you knew he'd already made his.
You’re the fast-talking, story-rambling, chaos-brained ray of sunshine. He's the quiet, soft-smiling, “just happy to be here” listener—who’s maybe not as chill as he looks when it comes to you.
You didn’t stop talking.
Not out of nerves. Not because you were trying to fill the silence. No, you just had a lot to say, and unfortunately— or fortunately, if you asked him—for Spencer Agnew, you’d decided he was going to hear every single bit of it.
“And I’m not saying Courtney went feral during the improv challenge, but when she climbed onto the table, screamed ‘I’M YOUR NEW GOD NOW,’ and tried to baptize Damien with a Capri Sun? That’s not ‘yes and’—that’s ‘arrest her.’”
Spencer snorted softly, curled up beside you on the Smosh green room couch.
He didn’t say anything. Just leaned his cheek on his knuckles and watched you with that tiny half-smile that meant he was enjoying this, even if his mouth didn’t move much. But his eyes—his eyes were soft, full of the kind of quiet love that didn’t need words. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be than next to you, listening.
“And THEN,” you continued, shifting to face him better, “Emily tried to de-escalate with the puppy voice, which just made it worse, and honestly? At that point, we all deserved chaos.”
“You always choose violence,” Spencer murmured.
“I choose accuracy.” You sipped your drink. “Anyway. I haven’t even told you what happened after filming. Do you wanna guess how many times Shayne dropped his mic?”
Spencer tilted his head. “Three?”
“Five. Five. One of them bounced into a plant. It’s in the blooper reel.”
He grinned. Still quiet. Still watching.
And you knew this rhythm by now.
You yapped. You rambled. You ping-ponged from story to insult to theory, sometimes circling back like a walking Google rabbit hole, like if Wikipedia got caffeine and a personality. And Spencer? Spencer sat with you in it. Always listening and always nodding at just the right moment. Always smirking when you hit a particularly unhinged punchline, like he’d been waiting for it the whole time. He never interrupted. Never rushed you. Just watched you like you were his favorite show, soaking in every wild tangent like it made perfect sense. Like your voice was the best background noise the world had to offer—and maybe the main event, too.
You paused for a beat. “I talk too much.”
Spencer blinked. “No, you don’t.”
You gave him a look.
“Okay, you talk a lot,” he amended, eyes warm. “But it’s never too much.”
Your stomach flipped.
You tried to hide it with sass. “You know, most people would say ‘shut up’ by now.”
“I’m not most people,” he said simply.
And that… made something in your chest tug.
You softened. “You ever get tired of listening to me?”
He shook his head. “Never.”
“Even when I rant about my neighbor’s emotional support chinchilla at 2 a.m.?”
“That was riveting.”
“Even when I psychoanalyze everyone’s childhood via their Starbucks orders?”
He smiled. “I still think about Shayne’s being a cry for help.”
You laughed, warm and caught off guard.
Spencer reached out—quietly, slowly—and brushed his fingers against yours on the couch. You blinked at him.
“I like your voice,” he said.
You stilled.
“It’s not just the stories or the jokes,” he went on, gaze focused, steady. “It’s you. You could read the back of a cereal box, and I’d still sit here like it was a movie.”
Your face heated. “...You’re literally in a room with trained comedians.”
“I’m aware.” He leaned in a little. “Still only listening to you.”
You bit your lip, heart stuttering.
“You gonna kiss me or just compliment me to death?”
His voice dropped, low and teasing. “You gonna let me?”
You didn’t answer. Just leaned in and kissed him like you’d been waiting through three seasons and two spin-offs.
His hand caught the side of your face halfway through, steady and careful, like he couldn’t believe this was real—but wasn’t about to let it go. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy. It was exactly right—warm and a little dizzying, like laughing too hard in the sun.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, eyes still half-lidded, Spencer just smiled.
That soft, crooked little smile like you’d just handed him the moon.
“You good?” you asked, voice low.
“Mm-hm,” he nodded, still looking at your mouth. “Gimme a sec. My brain's doing the Windows loading wheel thing.”
You laughed, giddy and flushed.
He tucked a hand behind your knee, squeezing gently. “Okay. Yeah. I'm fine. Great, actually. You kissed me. That's… illegal levels of cool.”
You grinned. “I’ll confess later.”
Spencer leaned in again, forehead pressed to yours. “No rush. I’m a patient man....You’re gonna have so much to say about this, huh?”
⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Wordcount: 5,2k
Part 1 (you’re here!) | Part 2 | Part 3
Had this idea while listening to “party 4 u” by Charli XCX, hihi
⋆˚࿔ Summary: You threw yourself a birthday party for one reason only: to make sure Joel Miller had no choice but to show up. He broke it off a month ago—said it couldn’t happen again. But you’re not over it. Not even close. And tonight might be your last chance to remind him why he never could stay away from you.
⋆˚࿔ Warnings:
Age gap (not specified) • mutual obsession • secret relationship • oral (f receiving) • PIV (unprotected) • slight dom!Joel • “daddy” kink (light use) • backseat sex • dirty talk • possessive tension • necklace symbolism • rough tenderness • messy emotions • soft aftercare • reader has friends who are nosy as hell • birthday cake
⋆˚࿔Author’s Note:
Hi besties 🥹 this is the first fanfic I’ve ever published, and I’m both excited and terrified to put it out there! I’d love to hear your thoughts, reactions, screams, analysis, freak-outs—literally anything you wanna tell me. Your feedback means the world, so feel free to drop an ask or a reblog with tags. Thanks for being here 💗 (hope anyone even reads this lmao)
Nervous wasn’t quite the right word for what you were feeling. No. What curled in your stomach, tight and sharp, was closer to despair. The kind that clings. Embarrassment too, maybe. And a little self-loathing, dusted over everything like powdered sugar on something too sweet.
People were trickling into the bar you’d rented, a grungy little place with flickering lights and sticker-covered walls, each one a memory someone left behind. You said it was for your special birthday. Twenty-five. A number that sounded important if you said it with enough conviction.
Your brother had given you a look when you made the announcement. Quiet, but questioning. He didn’t say anything, just sipped his drink like he was waiting for the punchline. You’d never thrown yourself a party before.
Across the room, Nico and Riley were tucked into a corner booth, their heads tilted toward each other like a secret. The light above them buzzed softly, catching just enough of their faces to make it look like a stage. Like they were performing being young and happy. You should’ve been over there too. Laughing. Pretending to be carefree. But instead, your eyes kept drifting back to the door.. You stared like it might open for you if you just put your mind to it hard enough.
Like he might walk through it.
A hand landed on your shoulder, jarring you out of it. Too hard. Too warm.
“Kiddo,” your dad said, offering you a beer. Cold enough to make your skin flinch. “Having a good night?”
You forced a smile, wide enough to fool someone who loved you too much.
“Yeah. Thanks, Dad. I’m so glad everyone came.”
Well. Everyone didn’t come.
He hummed, draped an arm across your shoulder. For a second, it felt like being five again, when the world was small and soft and safe.
Then you said it. Quiet and casual. “Did you invite Joel?” You took a sip to hide the way your mouth twisted when you said his name.
“Yeah,” he replied, not noticing. “Hope that’s alright with you. Figured I needed someone who drinks at my pace. Can’t keep up with you young folks anymore.”
He nodded toward the crowd, downing shots like they were racing death.
You laughed—dry, polite. If your dad knew, if anyone knew, that this entire night, this birthday, this guest list, this location, had been stitched together just to get Joel Miller into a room with you again…
Well.
They’d probably send you somewhere with padded walls.
And maybe they’d be right. Because even now, with all this noise and warmth around you, all you could think about was the last time you saw him.
The way he stood in his doorway, arms crossed, mouth tight.
The way he said it couldn’t happen anymore.
The way you begged.
Pathetic.
The way he said you had your whole life ahead of you, and he’d already lived his.
The way he never looked back.
“Sure you’re alright?” your dad asked, voice dipping into something softer. “You seem kinda… far away.”
You blinked, smiled again, this time with teeth. “I’m fine. Just really happy. And maybe a little tipsy.”
You added a giggle on top, like a cherry.
Then you kissed his cheek and slipped toward the bathroom.
The door clicked shut behind you like a final note.
You pressed both palms to the edge of the sink, bracing yourself like the floor might give out. The mirror in front of you offered no comfort, just your own face, too aware of how carefully you’d prepared for this night.
The dress was the one he liked. He told you once, offhandedly, that it drove him crazy. Said he worried all the “boys” would trip over their own feet trying to stare.Your lips curled at the memory, though it hurt.
Nico had done your makeup. Nothing too loud, just enough to make your eyes look bigger, brighter. Like a version of yourself you could almost believe. A single tear slid down your cheek, catching your mascara on its way down, leaving behind a delicate black streak. Like a special effect in a Hollywood movie. The kind where the girl falls apart beautifully. You wiped it away with the edge of your thumb, careful not to smudge the rest.
Heartbreak wasn’t new. You’d had college flings, boys with kind smiles and forgettable names. But none of them had ever looked at you like Joel did.
No one had touched you like he had, hands firm, reverent, like your body was a song he didn’t want to forget the words to. No one had kissed you slow, full of guilt and wanting, like he did when the door was locked and the world was far away.
And no one had ended it like he did either.
You still remembered the last time. His front door already cracked open, his jaw tight. The way he rubbed his face like he was trying to wake up from something.
“This has to stop,” he’d said. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You begged. You didn’t even try to hide it.
Asked why.
He said the words you already knew: the age, your dad, the life you were still building and the one he’d already spent.
You could still feel the echo of that moment in your ribs.
And now here you were—at a birthday part you didn’t want, in a dress you picked for a man who said goodbye, trying to hold your body together in a bathroom that smelled like beer and old soap. You dabbed at the corners of your eyes one last time and forced yourself to breathe. Then you opened the door.
The noise hit you like a wave—laughter, clinking bottles, bass thrumming low through the floor. Your father was waving at someone near the entrance, half-shouting over the music. “Look who finally showed up!”
But you didn’t need to look. You felt it. The air changed. He always did that—shifted the atmosphere like some kind of storm front. You turned, slow, and there he was.
Joel Miller.
That flannel—his flannel—was the one you’d picked out for him once, at some small store on a rainy afternoon. He wore it like he didn’t even realize. Like he wasn’t still wrapped in the memory of you.
He didn’t look at you at first. But you could feel his eyes—skimming the room, skipping over you, then circling back. Your throat tightened. Like you’d swallowed a stone. One of those heavy ones that lined the edge of your dad’s backyard pond.
Still, you moved. Like prey too stunned to know it was walking toward the hunter.
He stepped forward, finally meeting your gaze. And you could see it, something behind the eyes. Regret, maybe. Or worse: want.
“Hey, kid,” he said, soft. “Another year older, huh? Happy birthday.”
He held out a hand like you were strangers meeting at a dinner party.
You took it. Shook it. A nod was all you could manage.
“I uh—got you a present,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s out in the truck. You got a second?”
He scratched the back of his neck. He couldn’t look at you when he said it.
Joel Miller, nervous. What a sight.
You wanted to scream. To tell him no, that you didn’t need whatever apology-shaped object he’d left on his passenger seat. That you were doing fine, thank you very much. That he could go live his grown man life and leave you in peace.
But instead, you nodded. “Sure.”
He turned, walked through the crowd. You followed—threading your way past your friends, smiling too hard, touching shoulders like you belonged, like you weren’t unraveling at the seams.
—
Outside, it was quiet. Not peaceful, just still. A hoot echoed in the distance. An owl, or whatever fucking kind of bird thought it was a good idea to sing its heart out in the middle of the night. The gravel crunched beneath Joel’s boots—slow, steady, heavy. Not once did he glance back to check if you were following. Not once did he slow down.
So you trailed behind him, obedient and ridiculous, like some loyal dog too stupid to realize it had been left behind weeks ago.
His truck was parked in the back lot, tucked between two tall trees like it didn’t want to be found. Finally, he stopped. Turned. Looked. So you did the same. Stopped. Turned. Looked. Like two strangers in a standoff, unsure of what to say now that the war had already been lost.
“You’re bein’ distant,” he muttered. No soft greetings, no dad-approved handshakes, no pretending this was casual.
He had that voice again, the one he used only with you. Lower. Quieter. Trying to sound gentle, like you were a thing that might break. And god, you hated it. Or maybe you didn’t.
“Am I?” you snapped, arms crossed over your chest like armor. “Guess I didn’t notice, what with all the life I’ve been so busy living lately.”
It was early autumn, the kind of cold that seeps through your dress and sinks straight into your bones. You hugged yourself tighter, trying to hold in the warmth, or whatever scraps of it were left.
Joel stepped to the side of the truck and popped the door. Without a word, he pulled out one of his jackets. He walked over and laid it over your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You should’ve shrugged it off. You should’ve told him to fuck off. But it smelled like him. Smoke and cedar and wood shavings. Like safety. Like the last place you’d felt wanted.
“Thanks,” you mumbled.
He nodded once, jaw working.
“So what?” you asked. “You drag me all the way out here just to tell me I’ve been weird? Because newsflash, Joel, getting your heart broken a little tends to do that to a girl.”
You turned, ready to head back. Ready to reenter the noise and neon and pretend like you hadn’t just stood wrapped in his scent like some sad little footnote.
But then—his hand. On your wrist. Gentle, but firm. A tug, not a pull.
“Wait.” His voice cracked, soft. “Please. Just five minutes. That’s all I’m askin’. Please. Baby.”
You looked up. His eyes were wide, glassy. Begging. And goddammit, those eyes. You hated how easy they made it.
“Fuck,” he whispered, like the word hurt coming out. “You think this past month was easy for me? You think I liked avoiding you like I was made of stone? I think about you all day, every day. First thing in the morning, last thing before I sleep. And every time, I tell myself it’s wrong. That I shouldn’t. That I can’t.”
He laughed, humorless. Rubbed a hand over his face, then pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to make the world stop spinning.
“But still,” he continued, voice raw, “your face shows up. Everywhere. I see your eyes when I close mine, baby. I hear your voice in my head when things get quiet. I don’t know what the fuck to do about it.”
You didn’t think. Just reached for his hand, the one still half-hiding his face. Slid your fingers into his, gently lowered both to his chest. He let go. Just long enough to pull you in.
His arms wrapped around you like they’d never let go again. Tight, like he thought someone might come rip you away if he wasn’t careful. His face buried in your hair. Your cheek pressed to the soft cotton of his shirt, the beat of his heart steady and real beneath it.
Maybe you imagined it, but it felt like yours was flipping, twisting, leaping in your chest. Like it recognized something. Or someone. Maybe it was love. Or maybe it was a car crash you were finally letting happen.
You stood there for god knows how long.
There was a brief flicker in the back of your mind, someone might come looking. Nico, maybe. Or your brother. But the thought passed, unimportant.
Maybe it would’ve been easier if someone did see. If they caught you like this, wrapped in his jacket, pressed to his chest like something sacred. Then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. It would be out, and the world would just have to deal with it.
Joel let go first. Again. He stepped back, rubbed the back of his neck like he was stalling for courage, then ducked into the truck. When he reappeared, he was holding a small box. Wrapped. Badly. Like he’d tried. Like he’d started, stopped, tried again, given up halfway through but still finished because it had to be done.
He held it out to you like it weighed something more than it should. You took it carefully.
Bit by bit, you peeled away the paper, slow and precise, revealing a silky green box, inside a delicate silver necklace. A small green stone shimmered in the center, soft and earthy, like a forest in spring.
On the back, an initial. Your initial.
“Joel…” your voice caught in your throat. “This is—this is beautiful.”
For what felt like the hundredth time that night, your eyes filled with tears. This time, you didn’t bother wiping them away.
He took the chain from your fingers, stepping behind you. One hand reached up, brushing your hair gently to the side. His fingers skimmed over the back of your neck, and every hair on your body stood up like it had been waiting for that exact moment. Goosebumps bloomed beneath his touch. He leaned forward, carefully clipping the clasp behind your neck. His fingers were steady. Gentle. Familiar.
Then, just as gently, he guided your hair back into place, like it was something he’d done before, like he already knew the shape of you by heart.
“I made it,” he said softly, voice low near your ear. “Made it whenever I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you. When nothing else would get you outta my head, I worked on this. Just kept imagining what it’d be like—giving it to you.”
It didn’t matter anymore. Who might see. What it meant. How much worse this would make the ache.
You couldn’t help it.
You turned—fast, reckless—and kissed him.
At first, it was soft. A whisper of lips. A question.
He didn’t respond right away. Just stood there, frozen.
But then, something in him snapped. His hand shot up, fingers sinking into your hair, the other gripping your cheek like he needed to anchor himself to the moment. He kissed you back, open-mouthed, desperate. Sloppy in a way that made your knees weak. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.
It was need. Hot and raw and a month too late.
He walked you backward, mouth never leaving yours, hands roaming your sides like he couldn’t remember where to start. Hips, waist, thighs. He pressed into the soft skin beneath your dress, thumbs brushing the hem of your underwear, knuckles dragging across your bare skin like he couldn’t help himself. The dress rode up with every step. And just before your back could hit the cold metal of the car, he opened the door, fast and smooth, like he’d done it a hundred times before.
You fell into the back seat, breathless. The leather stuck to your skin, warm now, suffocating. You barely had a second to register it before Joel climbed in after you, mouth crashing against yours again like he was trying to memorize the taste.
“Fuck, baby,” he muttered between kisses, voice hoarse. “I missed you. I fucking missed you.”
His lips moved down to your neck, biting softly, soothing the sting with his tongue. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails digging through the fabric of his flannel. You felt him everywhere. His weight, his breath, the grip of his hands tracing your thighs, your ribs, the place just under your chest like he couldn’t pick what he wanted to touch most. His hips pressed into yours, slow, deliberate, like he wanted to feel the exact shape of you again. Like he was trying to remember what it felt like to have you wrapped around him, pulling him apart.
“This isn’t right,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, hands still running up your thighs like he couldn’t stop. “But I don’t care. I can’t stay away from you. I tried. God, I fucking tried, Baby. My Girl.”
Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him back to your mouth.
“Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t try anymore.”
The windows had already started to fog.
Joel was above you, heavy breaths warming the space between your lips. His hands trembled slightly where they gripped your hips, like he was holding back from devouring you whole.
You reached up, brushed your fingers along the edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to—”
But he cut you off, voice gravel-dark.
“I want to.”
Then, slower—deeper.
“I need to.”
He kissed your inner thigh first. Just above your knee. Then higher. Then higher again. Every touch was reverent, like he was making up for lost time. Or maybe punishing himself for the month he spent trying not to think about what you tasted like. When he got to your panties, he breathed in. Breathed. Like your scent knocked the breath from his chest.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, dragging them down with one hand while the other held your leg open, gently but firmly, like he wasn’t taking chances this time.
“You’re already so wet, baby. So wet for me, pretty girl.” he muttered, like it hurt him. “So fuckin’ sweet…”
And then his mouth was on you. No teasing. No slow build. He buried himself between your thighs like a man starved, like he hadn’t touched anyone in the time he was gone because there was only you. Tongue flat, wide, dragging through your folds like he wanted to live there. You gasped, head hitting the seat back, one hand scrambling for the fogged window, the other sinking into his hair.
Joel groaned—groaned—like the sound of your moan alone made him harder. He doubled down, tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth, messy and obscene, the wet sounds echoing in the tight heat of the car.
“F-Fuck—Joel—”
He grunted against you, holding your thighs wide open, almost shaking with restraint as he devoured you like something holy. Like your pleasure was the only thing that existed.
You looked down at him, breath hitching, and when your eyes met, he held your stare as he licked a slow, thick stripe from your entrance to your clit again. Then—again. And again.
“You taste like a fuckin’ dream,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “My fuckin’ dream.”
You whimpered, hips bucking against his mouth. He growled and pushed them down, holding you still, not letting you move—he was in charge here, and he was going to ruin you on his tongue.
“Daddy—” The word slipped out. Not planned. Just felt. Joel froze. Just for a second. Then looked up at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. A slow smirk spread across his lips, chin slick with you.
“Say that again.”
You swallowed, chest heaving.
“Daddy, please…”
That was it. He lost it. His mouth was back on you, harder now, rougher, devouring your clit with filthy groans that vibrated straight through your core. His fingers joined his mouth, sliding inside you, two thick ones, curling in just the right place, dragging moans from your throat like confessions.
It was overwhelming. Hot and wet and frantic. Like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. And you didn’t want him to stop. Your body tightened, muscles trembling, orgasm building fast—too fast.
“Joel—I’m gonna—”
He didn’t let up. Just pinned your hips, looked up at you with fire in his eyes, and growled:
“Come for me, babygirl. You can do it. I got you sweet girl. Come for me now..”
And you did. Your whole body arched off the seat, thighs shaking, moans spilling past your lips like prayer, like ruin. He didn’t stop. Kept licking you through it—into it—drawing every last wave from you, humming softly against your clit like he wanted you to feel his pleasure too.
Only when your body slumped, boneless and wrecked, did he finally lift his head.
“You always taste this fuckin’ good?” he muttered, voice low and raw. “I fucking forgot what it felt like to be alive.”
The air inside the truck had gone heavy, thick with heat and breath and the weight of every second spent apart.
Joel sat back on his heels between your thighs, chest heaving, hair a little wild. He looked ruined already, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. Your dress was still bunched at your waist, his jacket falling off one shoulder. The necklace he made you rested just above the swell of your chest, glinting in the dim cabin light. He looked at you like it hurt. Like you were too much and not enough all at once.
“I missed you,” he said, almost a whisper. “I missed you so fuckin’ bad it made me mean.”
You reached up, cupped his face, your thumb grazing that little crease beside his mouth. “Then do something about it.”
His eyes flickered, something bright, something dangerous. Then he moved.
He crawled over you, slow, like he was savoring it. The way your body opened for him. The way your knees spread wide, trembling, eager. He kissed you again, this time unhurried, deep, almost lazy. Like he had all the time in the world to ruin you. His cock pressed hard against your thigh, hot and heavy. You reached down to wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, loving the way his breath hitched in your mouth.
“Fuck,” he muttered, breaking the kiss. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“No,” you whispered, guiding him lower. “Just bring you back to life.”
Joel braced one hand beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, dragging it around his waist. You felt the thick head of him nudge your entrance—hot, solid, perfect.
He didn’t push in yet. Just stayed there.
“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice hoarse. “Tell me to do it.”
You blinked up at him, lips parted, breath shaky. “I want it. I want you. Please, Joel. Please just fucking make yours again”
That was all he needed.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open in a way that made your eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan. He was big. He always was. And you felt every single bit of him.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “You feel even tighter than I remembered.”
Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into fabric and skin as he bottomed out, hips flush with yours. He stilled there, letting you adjust, forehead pressed against yours.
The silence stretched. Breathless. Electric.
He started to move. Slow at first, dragging his cock out until just the tip remained before slamming back in with a groan that made your whole body throb.
“Joel—”
He growled into your ear. “You gonna take it all, babygirl? Gonna take everything I give you? Fucking you with my big dick that you’re taking so well?”
You nodded helplessly, back arching, legs wrapping tighter around him as he started to fuck you in earnest. Rough, deep, steady. Every thrust deliberate. No teasing now. No games. Just months of need finally boiling over.
“Fucked my hand for weeks thinkin’ about this pussy,” he rasped, biting down on your neck, licking over the mark he left. “But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.”
You whimpered, voice breaking. “Joel—please—harder—”
He obliged.
The rhythm turned punishing, his hips slamming into yours, the seat creaking beneath you, the windows fogged with sweat and heat and sin.
“Such a dirty fuckin’ girl,” he muttered. “Gettin’ fucked in the backseat like this, lettin’ Daddy make a mess of you. While everyone else is inside waiting for the birthday girl. She’s underneath me like a pretty little slut. This is probably the only birthday present you wanted huh?”
You moaned at the magic word, loud, needy, and he smiled against your throat, feral and proud.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Say it again.”
“Daddy—”
He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head, holding you in place as he drove into you harder, deeper, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot that had you writhing under him.
“You like that, don’t you?” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Being Daddy’s little fucktoy. You gonna let me fill you up?”
You choked out a sound, half sob, half moan—nodding frantically. “Yes—fuck, yes—please, I want it. Wanna feel you inside me. Making me feel so good”
He reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing it fast and rough, just the way he knew you liked. You were close, so close, your whole body coiling tighter, slick and soaked and made for him.
“I wanna feel you come, baby,” he grunted. “Wanna feel this pretty cunt milk my cock while I fill it up. Show me how much you missed me.”
That was it.
You shattered beneath him, crying out his name, whole body locking up as your orgasm crashed through you, leaving you shaking and gasping. Joel cursed, low and filthy, and then came inside you with a broken moan, cock pulsing deep as he held you tight, like he could press his heart right into your chest. He didn’t move. Just stayed there, breathing hard, face buried in your neck, whispering your name like a promise.
The truck was quiet now. Not silent, there was the sound of rain tapping softly on the roof, the distant hum of late-night traffic somewhere beyond the trees. But inside, the noise had stilled. Joel sat beside you, one hand resting on your thigh. His touch was light, absentminded, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. His thumb stroked in lazy circles over your skin, slow and steady, grounding. Your dress was rumpled, pushed halfway down your hips, his jacket still hanging from your shoulders. The air smelled like sex and sweat and his cologne.
You leaned your head against the window, skin cooling, breath finally evening out. Neither of you spoke.
The moment didn’t ask for words. It just was. Heavy and warm and full of something unspoken. You looked down at your chest, fingers finding the delicate silver chain. The necklace still sat there, the green stone catching the soft overhead light. Your initial pressed against your skin like it belonged there. You ran your fingertip over it, slow, thoughtful.
Joel saw. He didn’t say anything right away, just watched your hand, watched the way you touched something he made for you. Something he'd thought about while pretending he didn’t care.
Then, softly, almost like he was afraid the words might scare you away, he said, “Happy birthday.”
You looked at him. You smiled, small and real, the corners of your lips curling..
“Thanks,” you whispered.
He gave a small nod. Barely a movement. But he didn’t look away. Not this time. And you didn’t push. Didn’t ask what this meant. Didn’t ask if things were different now. You just sat there, legs tangled, his jacket around your shoulders and his come still inside you, and knew.
He was here. And he wasn’t going anywhere, not tonight.
—-
You stepped out of the truck first, legs still a little unsteady, dress sticking to your skin in places, hair slightly mussed from Joel’s hands, his mouth, his body. The air outside had cooled even more, autumn crisp and still. You inhaled, deeper than you meant to, like the moment needed anchoring. Joel came around the side of the truck and pulled the door shut behind him, eyes scanning the ground for a second before they lifted to meet yours. His face had softened, not entirely, but enough that you saw the shift. Something in his expression you hadn’t seen in weeks. A quiet, wordless promise: I'm here.
Neither of you said anything as you started walking back toward the bar. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes again, the low hum of music getting louder with every step. You adjusted his jacket around your shoulders, still warm from his body, and smoothed your fingers once more over the necklace resting just below your collarbone. The stone felt heavier now. Important.
Inside, the bar was just as loud and golden and smoky as you left it. The party hadn’t missed a beat. People were laughing over half-empty drinks, a group were now playing darts and heckling each other mercilessly, and your brother was waving a sparkler around in the corner with two girls you didn’t know. But as soon as you crossed the threshold, the attention shifted.
“There you are!” someone called from across the room. Riley, of course. Loud and nosy and already half a bottle deep. “Where the hell did you disappear to?”
You froze just slightly, lips parted, heat already rushing to your cheeks. Joel brushed past you then, moving through the crowd with a casualness that only just masked the tension in his shoulders. His hair was a little wild, his shirt untucked at the back, and there was still the faintest pink at the tips of his ears.
And then Nico joines. He took one look at Joel. Then at you. His eyes narrowed. Slowly. Like a cartoon villain putting two and two together. And then he screeched.
“OH MY GOD—”
Your head snapped toward him, a hand shooting up, eyes wide. “Shut the fuck up.” You said it with all the fake venom you could manage, but the smile curling at the corner of your mouth betrayed you instantly. Riley’s mouth dropped open like she was about to explode, but she held it in, barely, eyes twinkling like she’d just been handed the juiciest gossip of her life. And she probably was.
You slipped past her quickly, cheeks burning, pretending to busy yourself with a forgotten drink someone handed you. Then the music changed, softened into a rhythm you recognized too late.
A cake appeared out of nowhere, glowing with too many candles. Someone dimmed the lights, and then, everyone was singing.
Happy birthday to you…
It was out of tune, too loud, voices competing for attention, but there was something warm and wonderful about it anyway.
You turned slowly, laughing through your mortification, hands half-covering your face, and then—
You felt it.
Joel’s hand.
Sliding around your waist from behind, slow and deliberate, fingers resting just above your hipbone. Not claiming. Not possessive. Just there.
Steady.
You didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. You just leaned back a little, just enough that your shoulder brushed his chest, and let yourself exist in the moment—cake and candles and noise and his hand on you like maybe, just maybe, the space between you two didn’t need to be hidden anymore.
Happy birthday, dear you…
The song ended in applause, laughter, someone accidentally knocking over a beer. You didn’t hear much of it.
You just closed your eyes for a second. Smiled.
And felt the weight of his fingers tighten, just slightly, at your waist.
Summary: You grew up in the shadows of Gotham’s most famous family — a Wayne by blood, but never by bond. To your father, Bruce, you were a responsibility. To your siblings, you were an afterthought. Alfred was the only one who saw you, who remembered your birthday, who asked about your day. For years, the Bat-family lived their lives while you drifted quietly on the edges of theirs.
But when everything begins to change, their distance turns to closeness… and their attention becomes something else entirely. The siblings who once ignored you now want to know everything about you — where you go, who you’re with, what you’re hiding. The family that left you out now insists you belong to them.
You spent your whole life wishing to be seen. But now that you finally are… can you keep both your family and your freedom?
Warning:
• Neglect
• Emotional Hurt/Comfort
• Family Dysfunction
• Possessive Behavior / Mild Obsession
• Loss of Parent
• Identity & Autonomy Struggles
• Found Family vs. Biological Family
• Violence
• Injury
• Intense Emotional Stress
• Death
• Murder
Disclaimer: Due to the comics having a ton of different ret-cons, continuity issues, a lot of questions unanswered, and messed up timelines not thoroughly explained in a lot cases I'm changing quite a few things in my story. Character iterations from different timelines, movies, and shows will be mixed in to serve the purpose of my story. I do research to keep things as accurate as possible but sometimes there is no solid answer for what I'm asking and I have to make it up or change some things as I go.
Character ages: Alfred Pennyworth (67), Bruce Wayne (45), Barbara Gordon (28), Dick Grayson (27), Jason Todd (25), Stephanie Brown (21), Reader (21), Cassandra Cain (21), Tim Drake (20), Duke Thomas (17), Damian Wayne (10)
⚠️ Content Note: This chapter includes scenes of graphic violence and death. This is more intense than any other part of the series. And while I'm positive there are worse things to read online I just feel more comfortable letting you guys know that the story often deals with dark and emotional themes, and Chapter 7 is uniquely gritty. It's meant to serve as a turning point rather than the tone moving forward. After this, we return to what the series really is: emotion, relationships, and healing.
If you still prefer to skip heavy physical violence or you want to keep your experience with my story more tame, for a lack of a better term, you can safely move to Chapter 8. The aftermath is discussed, but not shown in graphic detail.
Thank you for reading and trusting me with your time. 💛
Word Count: 13,384
💮Masterlist💮
You weren't entirely sure when you fell asleep. You hadn't moved from your spot, trying to let your body heal in anyway it could. Trying to keep your mind steady, maybe even a little positive. The light above you had gone from flickering to steady, humming just enough to remind you you're alive.
The sound of footsteps outside your door caught your attention. The lock turned and the door opened, revealing Erick. Two men stood behind him, both broad, both silent.
“Hey there Sunshine! On your feet c'mon,” he said. "It's show time!"
You hesitated a second too long. One of the men stepped forward, roughly grabbing your arm and hauling you up. Pain flared down your side, but you bit it back, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing it.
"I know I said the morning but I slept in. I would have been here at noon but my lunch was so, damn, good," Erick gave you a condescending grin that made you want to vomit on the spot. "Hope you don't mind I ate your portion too. But you can survive a few days without food ya know? You'll be fine."
As you were taken through the hideout, your eyes scanned every inch of your surroundings, committing it to memory. They marched you down a series of narrow hallways. You caught glimpses of closed doors, with faint voices bleeding through cracks. Open doors were empty and dirty, having been stripped of everything except meaningless supplies and garbage.
You turned down another hall, and a set of large double doors came into view. They shoved you through the double doors and into what looked like a former conference room. The change in air hit you first—cooler, cleaner, the only room with windows, but no less oppressive.
Sit,” Erick gestured to the folding chair in the middle of the room.
You obeyed. The metal legs scraped against the floor as you sat, the sound slicing through the heavy silence. Erick took his place at a desk positioned in front of the window, adjusting the webcam until it was aimed squarely at you. One of the men beside him drew a pistol and pressed the cold barrel to your temple, the pressure steady and unyielding.
You tried to steady your breathing, eyes darting toward the window — the only thing in the room that hinted at the outside world.
But the view offered no comfort. The glass was grimy, streaked with years of neglect. Beyond it stretched nothing, even as the setting sun illuminated everything in an orange haze. A wide, empty expanse of cracked concrete and rusted shipping containers. No passing cars. No city sounds. Just wind, whispering through the gaps in the metal walls.
It hit you then: you were too far from anywhere. The warehouse sat buried deep in some forgotten industrial district, where the only visitors were ghosts of old machinery and the hum of power lines. Even if you screamed, no one would hear you.
And Erick knew it.
“You’re going to send a message,” he said, his tone almost casual. “We need to let your father know where you are. And that if he doesn't meet our demands, things are going to get out of hand really fast.”
You blinked. “My father?”
Erick smiled, thin and sharp. “Bruce Wayne. I think he’ll listen if the plea comes from his daughter.”
Your blood turned to ice. No shot of that happening! He was off doing Batman things with the Justice League. Saving and protecting other people who were more important than you will ever be. Whatever these people had planned for you wasn't sounding like a threat anymore, and more like a definite promise.
The red light blinked faster, steadying into record mode. Erick nodded. “Start talking. Beg him for help.”
Your throat tightened. You stared into the lens, the blank, unblinking eye that could reach Gotham in seconds, and felt a tremor crawl down your spine. You didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. But you knew refusing wouldn’t end well. So you swallowed hard, forcing the words out through the knot in your throat.
“Bruce…Dad… please. They have me. I—” Your voice cracked.
"Don't be scared honey," Erick mocked. "Try again. With feeling this time."
As you stared into the camera, you remembered the last time Bruce had looked at you — eyes tired, voice distracted, saying he’d talk to you soon. He never did.
You clenched and unclenched your jaw. Forcing yourself to deal with the humiliation, you steadied your voice. “Just do what they ask. Just give them what they want. Please. I need you.”
The camera caught every shake, every shallow breath, every flicker of fear you couldn’t hide.
When Erick finally said, “Cut,” you felt your stomach twist. The lens stopped recording, but it didn’t feel like the world had stopped watching. "You're not exactly going to Hollywood but we can make do with this shot."
The man with the gun finally withdrew it, though he didn’t holster it—just let it hang loosely in his hand at his side, like a casual threat.
Erick sauntered over to you with a disgustingly smug grin on her face. "Man, this is truly a delight. You're the biggest cash cow we've gotten. You belong to one of the richest families in the world. And I have you in my possession. At my mercy."
Erick crouched in front of you, the faint scent of cigarettes clinging to his hair. “You did well,” he said in that same eerie calm tone. “You might actually get out of this alive if Daddy moves fast enough.”
You flinched when he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Though between you and me,” he whispered, “he doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type. But for your sake, let's hope I'm wrong. Take her away."
One of the men grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into bruises that hadn’t even finished forming. He hauled you up causing you to stumbled, catching yourself against the edge of the folding chair before they dragged you toward the door again. Erick stayed behind, humming softly as he checked the camera’s playback, replaying your own face on the tiny screen.
They marched you down the same hall, the air thicker now, heavier. When the man shoved you back into your room, you didn't hit the floor, but another person.
"Holy shit [Name]!"
You looked up into a pair of wide blue eyes. "Brooke!?"
Just like yours , her wrists were bound behind her, the skin rubbed raw beneath the ropes. A strip of duct tape dangled uselessly from her sleeve where she must’ve tried to bite it off. Her hair was a mess, her face pale with the exception of a large purple bruise on her cheekbone.
The man chuckled. "Good. You'll keep each other company. Enjoy it, this is as good as it gets while you’re here."
Then the door slammed shut and locked, leaving you both alone.
Brooke’s breath hitched. A waterfall of tears began streaking down her face. “You’re—oh god, you’re really here.”
You nodded, exhaling a shaky breath. “Yeah...unfortunately.”
“I thought I would never see you again! They saved everyone from the aquarium but they didn't find you. I was beginning to lose hope.” her voice cracking.
Brooke tried to shift closer, the rope around her wrists scraping together. “I’m sorry. I'm so so so sorry. I didn’t know what Mark was doing. He said he was taking me home, that Mom and Dad were worried. I didn’t think—” Her breath broke. “He’s not the same, [Name]. Something’s wrong with him.”
“Stop. Wait.” You stared at her, disbelief tightening your chest. “Mark is behind this? Your own brother planned this whole kidnapping operation!?”
Brooke used her shoulder to wipe away her tears. "Sorta. When he took me he was saying that he knew a guy who was part of this, and that this person let Mark in on all of this because he knew me and you and Dani and Laura and…and… I'm gonna cry again [Name]!" She hiccupped, trying not to sob. “Dani and Laura are back at the hotel thinking you’re missing and I’m flying back home. But we’re here and they’re in so much trouble!”
“Hey. It’ll be okay.” You shuffled closer, twisting awkwardly until your shoulder brushed hers. You leaned in, and Brooke relaxed into you, her head resting in the crook of your neck. You kept your voice low, your breath slow and steady to help her calm down. “Trust me they’ll keep us alive.”
Brooke inhaled sharply through her nose so snot wouldn't go down her face. "How do you know?"
"They want money. Plain and simple. I don't know why they caused that explosion. But they already have a video of me begging Bruce to save me."
"That's awful! They'll do the same thing to me and Tim! That's so humiliating and scary!"
You froze. “Wait—Tim?”
Before she could react, you pushed yourself to your feet, heart hammering. Brooke toppled onto her back with a soft thud and a startled grunt. “I’m sorry, Brooke, but Tim is here too!? Where?”
“Somewhere around here.” She rubbed her shoulder, still catching her breath. “Everything is kinda fuzzy for me.”
You knelt back down, desperate now. “Tell me what happened. Start at the beginning.”
Brooke sat up, mirroring you. The two of you faced each other, knees almost touching, like kids whispering secrets at a sleepover.
She nodded slowly, eyes darting to the locked door. “Okay… I’ll do my best. But it happened like this…”
…The light and luxurious hotel room was filled with tension and dread by the three girls. Dani was laying on one of the couches waiting for her migraine medicine to kick in. Brooke sat curled up in a recliner, knees to her chest, rocking gently. Laura was pacing the room, mumbling things under her breath.
All of their phones were sitting on the coffee table. Any moment now, one of them will ring. And there will be someone on the other line saying you were safe and sound at the hospital. They just had to wait. They were sure of it.
But instead of a phone ringing, there was a hard knock at the door. Brooke was the first one on her feet. She sprinted to the door thinking you would be standing there, but it was Mark instead.
“Mark!” Brooke exclaimed, wrapping her arms tightly around her brother.
Mark returned the hug, though it was slightly stiff. He didn’t even bother to crouch down to her height. “I came as soon as I heard what happened at the aquarium. Are you okay?”
Brooke pulled back, looking up at him. “What!? That happened, like, three hours ago! How did you hear and get here so fast?”
"The news, and a really fast private jet." Mark gently took Brooke's hand in his. "We need to get you home Brooke. It's not safe anymore. And I'm sure you're shaken up by all of this."
Brooke’s lower lip trembled. “Yeah, but [Name] is still missing. We’ve been waiting for any news. I want to stay—so when they find her, I can be there for her.”
"I get it. But Mom and Dad sent me here. Saying we need to get you home. What happened was obviously some kind of planned attack. You need to be at home, safe and sound. With me, mom, and dad."
“I understand,” Mark said, squeezing her hand. “But Mom and Dad sent me. They want you home. What happened was clearly a planned attack. You need to be somewhere safe—with me, Mom, and Dad.”
Brooke froze, weighing her options. Dani stepped forward, rubbing gentle circles on her back. “You should go,” she said softly. “If your parents are asking for you, it’ll ease their minds. They’ll worry less if you’re safe.”
Laura nodded, voice hoarse from crying and screaming. “Yeah. [Name] will understand. When she’s found, you can come back, or video call her.”
Mark offered a reassuring smile. “See? Everything will be fine. Let’s get your things packed and leave.”
Brooke wiped a stray tear from her cheek and nodded, finally moving past him to her hotel room. Dani and Laura looked on fondly. Seeing their friend going with home to be with her worried family, where she will be safe and sound.
When the siblings were in Brooke's room she immediately started packing. Inside the room, Brooke started packing fast, yanking open drawers and pulling clothes from hangers. Mark followed close behind, like a restless shadow. Huffing and grumbling anytime she slowed down even a little bit.
“Come on, Brooke!” he barked.
"Do not rush me please!" Brooke snapped. She was playing Tetris with her folded clothes, trying to find the best layout so everything can fit better. "I'm not leaving anything behind!"
"You can literally buy this stuff and have it delivered to your bedroom tomorrow morning," Mark slammed the suitcase closed and tried to zip it, but Brooke pushed him away.
"I know that but this is my stuff! And I like my stuff. And some of these things my best frineds gave me. It's all coming back with me, I don't care."
He rolled his eyes. “Then at least let me help.”
“If you do, nothing will fit,” she shot back. “I appreciate the offer, but I know what I’m doing.”
"And I don't," Mark glared at Brooke.
Brooke looked at him, exhausted and done with the conversation. "What?"
"You said you know what you're doing and I don't."
"I didn't say that last part," she countered, her tone tensing and voice rising. "You're making this whole thing about you, like you always do. The second you get your little feelings hurt, anything anyone says is somehow a personal dig at you. My best friend is missing, dead or alive, no one knows! And I'm extremely upset and worried! This situation is not going to be about you! So stop it and grow up! You're a thirty-two years old man Mark, lets fucking act like it!? Please!?"
Brooke didn’t give her brother the satisfaction of responding. She was already moving toward the bathroom, trying to think, trying to get a moment to herself. She started pulling things from the cabinets when suddenly a puff of dust exploded in her face.
It was like someone had thrown a handful of ground pepper directly into her eyes and nose. Her throat burned. Her eyes streamed uncontrollably. The stinging made her cough, gag, and stumble. The overwhelming sensation knocked her off her feet, sending her sprawling across the cold tile.
“What the hell!” she shrieked, clawing at the floor, trying to find something to grab. “Mark! Mark! Mark! Help!”
Her voice was raw, panicked, desperate. Every second stretched painfully as the room spun around her, the dust filling her lungs, blurring her vision.
"It's fine Brooke," Mark’s voice came from somewhere above her, low and calm. "The drug will take effect in about five minutes or so."
Brooke’s stomach dropped. The drug? She couldn’t process it. Couldn’t even think. The walls swayed like a boat in a storm. She clawed at the floor until her trembling hands found the counter. Somehow, she dragged herself up and fumbled for the faucet. Cold water splashed over her face, cutting through the burning. For a moment she could see again—just enough to find him. With angry red eyes she glared at Mark, who stood in the doorway, watching her with detached amusement.
“We could’ve done this the easy way,” he said, stepping closer. “But you said it yourself, I need to grow up. So I’ll start tomorrow. But today…” His lips curled. “Today, I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer.”
Brooke blinked through the stinging tears. “W-Why are you doing this?” she choked out.
“You’ll see soon enough,” he replied, almost cheerfully. “But go ahead. Try and call for help. Your phone’s in the kitchen.”
Her legs gave a violent tremor. The world tilted sideways. Still, she stumbled toward the door, arms outstretched, trying to make it just a little farther. When she left the bedroom and rounded the corner into the living room, she stumbled over the rug on the floor.
Her hands shot out instinctively, trying to catch herself, but the momentum sent her sprawling across the floor. Pain flared in her knees and palms, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Mark’s shadow loomed over her, a slow, deliberate step closer that made her stomach churn. “Careful,” he said, almost mockingly. “Wouldn’t want to hurt yourself before the fun begins.”
Every nerve in her body screamed at her to move, to fight, but the drug still coursed through her, dulling strength and coordination. Her head spun as she scrambled upright, gripping the edge of the couch for support. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze, her heart hammering.
The faint, steady sound of a knock echoed through the apartment. Mark’s lips twisted into a deep frown. "Who the hell is that?"
He took a cautious step toward the door, his hand hovering near the handle. “I didn't order anyone to be here.”
Another knock came, louder this time, deliberate. Mark’s brow furrowed. “Who the hell would…?” His voice trailed off as unease started to replace his usual arrogance.
He glanced at Brooke, who was laying on floor. Brooke let out a weak groan, her body trembling against the floor. Mark bent down to lift her roughly by the arm. “Stay down, it’s fine,” he muttered, though his voice wavered slightly, betraying his uncertainty.
Another knock. Louder. More insistent. "Brooke? It's Tim Drake, [Name's] brother! I need to talk to you about my sister!"
Mark’s eyes flicked toward the door, and a slow, calculating smirk spread across his face. “Tim Drake, huh?” His voice dripping with intense greed he didn't bother trying to hide.
“Well, isn’t this convenient?” he muttered under his breath. “Another one to leverage. We can ask Bruce Wayne for double the money now that we have two of his kids.”
Brooke's heart was racing. "You…you took [Name]? S-She's not dead?"
Mark started dragging her to the bedroom, back into the bathroom. "If she misbehaves with my collogues, then she will be. But yes, she's alive. And she's going to make me very rich. And so will you and Tim out there. Just be quiet and let me work. And you'll make it out of here alive."
Brooke was too weakened by the drug to stop Mark, or yell out to warn Tim. As she faded in and out of consciousness she heard the sound of a scuffle echoing through the hotel room. Brooke’s eyelids fluttered as she tried to focus, every movement of her body weighted down by the drug. Her ears picked up muffled grunts, the shuffle of feet, and harsh curses.
Minutes later everything faded to black…
…Brooke shifted slightly where she sat. "When I woke up, me and Tim were in the trunk of someone's car. Then Mark and some other man were carrying me. Tim was being dragged by another two right behind us. I tried to fight my way out of their grip. I didn't know where I would go…I just wanted to go. Mark didn't hesitate to punch my face. I fell to the ground, and he dragged me by my hair into this room…called me a bunch of vulgar names along the way. Saying he'd let those men do…disgusting things to me if I kept causing trouble…"
She wasn’t crying anymore. Her face was a map of brokenness. She wore that suffering openly, without restraint.
"Oh Brooke," your heart broke hearing her recount what happened to her. Your family had done some mean things, but Mark betraying his own sister was downright horrid.
You knew you'd make it out of this. You knew that the captors had not just Tim Drake, but Red Robin. And that the Young Justice were not too far behind. But you couldn't tell Brooke that. You just had to keep your spirits up for the both of you, and let her not let her fear consume her.
You slowly leaned forward, gently touching Brooke's forehead to yours. “Hey… you’re still here,” you murmured, keeping your voice low and steady. “You made it. That’s what matters right now. You’re not alone.”
Brooke’s eyes flickered up at you, glazed with pain but searching. She gave a small, shaky nod, but didn’t speak. You both scrambled up to the one cot and tried to make yourselves comfortable. The thin mattress did little to cushion your sore muscles, and the room smelled faintly of damp concrete and old air.
The silence didn't last unfortunately. The faint shuffle of footsteps in the hallway made you both freeze. The door swung open, and Erick stepped in first, a few men following close behind. Their presence replaced what little hope you and Brooke had cultivated with an oppressive and suffocating atmosphere.
"Come on Brooke," Erick stepped aside so the two men could walk in and pick her up. "We're gonna film a nice little video for your parents."
Brooke was being dragged toward the door, stumbling slightly. She didn't look at you as she left, but she gave a firm thumbs up behind her back, letting you know she's still holding on, and that she'll be okay.
When the door shut and locked again you were left by yourself. You sat there for a long moment, staring at the spot where Brooke had just been. The air felt heavier without her — colder somehow, like the warmth she carried had been stolen along with her.
More silence. More uncertainty. You swallowed hard. Panic clawed at your throat, begging to break free, but you forced it down. If you lost it now, you’d never make it another night. You tried to give yourself the hope you tried to spread with Brooke.
"WHERE THE HELL IS MY SISTER," Tim's angry voice ricochet off the walls of the hideout. Hearing his voice filled your whole body with an unbelievable sense of relief.
"Thank you, finally." The door slammed open, the two men hauling Tim threw him into the room and quickly closed the door. "What the fuck!"
You stared at your savior as he writhed and groaned on the floor. His dark hair plastered to his forehead, and when he lifted his face you got a good look at his split lip, a bruise at the temple, and small trail of blood dried up on his forehead.
He rolled onto his side, wrists straining against the rope digging into the skin behind his back. “Fantastic,” he muttered. “Add a bruised shoulder to the list.”
You glared at him from across the room. “This better be a joke. Please say this is a joke. You were supposed to save me, not get your ass thrown in here too.”
He glared up at you through a curtain of messy hair. “Good to see you too, sis.”
“I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” you said flatly. “But you literally walked into a kidnapping operation tied up before the first commercial break.”
Tim let out a rough laugh that immediately turned into a groan. “Sorry I didn’t have time to do my research while I was getting punched in the face.”
“Oh, right, because that always goes so well for you,” you snapped, wriggling against your own restraints. “Remind me, what’s the point of all that fancy detective training if you can’t even avoid getting caught?”
“Detective training doesn’t cover a sibling with zero patience,” he muttered.
“Neither does it cover bad plans, apparently.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “You know, I’m starting to remember why I like working solo.”
You snorted. “Because you can't work solo. You’d get bored and start monologuing to the walls.”
“Please, you’re projecting.”
You leaned forward, lowering your voice into a mocking imitation. “ ‘I’m Red Robin, and I’m always five steps ahead. I'm a genius. And you're not!’ "
“Wow,” he said dryly. “I don’t sound like that.”
“You sound exactly like that. I could be you for Halloween.”
Tim gave you a look that was somehow both exasperated and fond. “Man, you’re lucky I love you.”
You shot him a tight grin. “I know. Otherwise, I’d probably be dead right now.”
He looked at you, the humor fading slightly from his eyes. “You’re not going to die. Not while I’m here.”
You sighed and leaned your head back against the wall. “Well you better figure out how to get us out of here then.”
He smirked faintly. “You could help, you know.”
“I am helping,” you said, kicking lightly at his leg. “I’m providing emotional support.”
“Oh! So that’s what we’re calling insults now?”
“Yes. Now shut up and focus.”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” he said quietly, giving you a small smile of his own. “Remind me next time to let the armed kidnappers keep you.”
"Will do." Your smile faded. "But seriously, do you have a plan? Or do we have wait for Bruce to pay up?"
Tim managed to pick himself up and sit next to you on the cot. "I have a plan. In fact, the plan is operating right now. "
"Oh really?"
"Yes really," Tim shuffled closer to you and started whispering. "You really think I actually got my ass kicked and kidnapped that easily? I let myself get caught. There's a small tracking device attached to my belt. My team knows where I am."
"So, where are we?"
"Still in Central City. But this is a far off district called Tarmin. This warehouse made a lot of jobs for a lot of people when it was operational. So they built homes and businesses here. When this place was abandoned, so was this district. We figured you were taken here but we needed to be sure. We were on a time crunch and didn't want to waste any time if you were taken elsewhere. We got a lot of info on Mark, Erick, and their other buddies, but underestimating your enemies is never a good idea."
You gave a genuine smile. "You got your ass whooped and kidnapped just to save me?"
"I'd break every bone in my body just so you can get a good nights sleep."
"Thank you…so where's your team. Shouldn't they have been here by now?"
This made Tim pause. "Yeah. I don’t have any way to communicate with them. I didn't want too much gear on me or else they'll be onto me."
“So…what happens now?” you asked.
Tim took a deep breath, staring at the walls as if trying to read them, trying to stay calm. “We wait.”
The rooftop was cold, the wind biting as Cassie, Bart, and Conner crouched in the shadows, their eyes fixed on the distant warehouse. The faint beeping of the tracking device in Cassie’s hand told them all they needed to know—Tim was in there, somewhere.
Cassie’s grip tightened on the device, her pulse quickening. The wait felt endless, gnawing at her with every passing second.
“We’re close,” she muttered, barely louder than a whisper, the urgency in her voice undeniable. “But we need to move now, before they make a move of their own.”
Bart shifted impatiently, his body tense with anticipation. “Yeah, but what’s the plan? We can’t just run in without a strategy. We still don’t know how many of them are inside or what weapons they got.”
Conner’s posture was stiff, his jaw tight. “We wait for the right moment, then we hit them from all sides. We’re not getting caught.”
“Agreed,” Cassie said, eyes scanning the building. “We can’t risk being seen. We need to be in and out.”
They were just about to make their move when the sound of footsteps echoed from behind them. The team turned as one, instinctively ready for a fight. But when they saw who it was, they immediately dropped their fists.
Dick stepped out of the shadows, his movements sharp, deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. His eyes, usually warm, were now cold and burning with something darker. Kori stepped behind him, her face filled with worry, but even she couldn’t hide the unease in her eyes.
Cassie’s stomach twisted. “Nightwing… What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.
Dick didn’t answer right away. He looked at each of them, even through his domino mask his gaze piercing, like he was assessing whether they were worth his time. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding, and there was an edge to his presence that sent a chill through the group. This wasn’t the Dick they knew, they might as well be looking at someone else.
“I’m going after Erick,” he said, his voice a low growl, barely controlled. “And you’re not doing this without me.”
Cassie froze. “You’re not going in there, Nightwing. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed. The calm demeanor he usually carried was gone, replaced by an intensity that felt like it could burn through stone. “I’m not standing by while they hurt her.”
His hands were balled into fists. His chest was rising and falling with each shallow breath, like he was fighting something deep inside himself. His body was coiled, every muscle tense with barely contained rage.
Bart stepped forward, trying to control the trembling in his own voice. “We’re going in, Dick. But we have a plan. You can’t just throw yourself in there without thinking.”
Dick’s gaze shot to him, cold and lethal. His lips curled into a tight, controlled sneer. “I’m not waiting around,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but cutting through the silence like a blade. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, and the tension in the air grew thicker with every inch he closed.
Conner's heart pounded. He knew this was not just about the mission. This was personal. Something had snapped inside Dick.
Kori stepped forward, her voice softer but still filled with urgency. “Nightwing, please. We’re all in this together. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
Dick didn’t flinch. His eyes locked on her, and for a split second, it almost seemed like he couldn’t even recognize her. He was somewhere else—caught in a storm that no one could reach him through. It was like the closer he got to [Name], the more he changed. He's different from the Dick that left his home.
He snapped, his voice dark, dangerous. “I’ve already lost enough. And if you get in my way, I’ll leave you behind.”
The words struck like a physical blow, and Bart took a step back, his stomach churning. This wasn’t just Dick pushing them away; it was something more terrifying. He wasn’t thinking clearly—he was acting on instinct, on rage.
Conner hesitated, his usual bravado gone. “Nightwing… this is getting out of hand. You don’t need to do this alone. You can’t.”
Dick looked at them, his eyes narrowing with a look that could freeze fire. “Stay out of my way,” he growled. “If you don’t want to help, then get the hell off this roof, and go home.”
Conner, still silent, finally stepped forward. His voice was low, barely above a whisper, but the weight of it hit harder than anything. “We’re not abandoning Tim or [Name]. But we won’t follow you if you’re willing to throw yourself into this recklessly.”
Dick’s eyes flickered toward Conner, but only for a moment. The anger in his gaze didn’t shift. He was beyond reason, beyond redemption for this moment. Everything inside him was about to break, and nothing would stop it.
“I’m going in,” he said, his voice chillingly calm.
Kori moved closer to him, her hand gently resting on his arm. “Nightwing, please…” Her voice wavered, but there was nothing she could say that would pull him back from the edge. She saw the darkness inside him now—raw and unchecked—and it terrified her.
Dick didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at any of them. He turned away, his steps sharp, filled with purpose. “Do whatever you want. Just stay the hell out of my way.”
Cassie, Bart, and Conner exchanged glances, the weight of Dick’s words settling heavily on their shoulders. They had never seen him like this before. He wasn’t the leader they knew. He wasn’t the Dick who made calm, calculated decisions, cracking a joke or two. This was a man consumed by something darker—a force they weren’t sure they could follow.
But they had no choice.
“Let’s move,” Conner said quietly, his voice thick with uncertainty. “We go in. Together.”
But even as they moved toward the roof access, none of them could shake the feeling that they weren’t just chasing Erick anymore. They were chasing the part of Dick that had been unleashed, and they weren’t sure what would happen when they caught up.
The team dropped into the shadows of the alley below, moving swiftly and silently toward the back of the warehouse. The tension in the air was palpable, each step a calculated risk as they navigated the narrow spaces between the buildings.
Cassie, Bart, and Conner were ready—prepared for a fight. They had their plans, their instincts sharp and honed for this. But Dick? Dick was something else entirely. He moved with a sense of purpose so brutal, so raw, that the team struggled to keep up.
With every step, the air around him seemed to thrum with intensity. He wasn’t just ready for a fight—he was looking for it. The darkness in his eyes had become a consuming fire that spread through his body.
“Get in position,” Kori hissed as they reached the back of the warehouse. “We hit them from all sides. Watch your backs.”
But even as the words left her mouth, she saw it—the flash of movement ahead. A guard stepped into view, his eyes scanning the area.
Before anyone could react, Dick was already moving. His steps were silent, but lethal, like a predator closing in on its prey. In an instant, he was on the guard, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him into the nearby wall. The sickening crack of bone against concrete rang in their ears.
Dick’s eyes didn’t flinch. He didn’t even pause to make sure the man was unconscious. The guard’s body slumped to the floor, a useless mess of limbs. But Dick didn’t care. He was already moving again, his focus set solely on the next target.
“Damn it!” Cassie shouted, her heart racing. “Slow down! We need to coordinate—!”
But Dick wasn’t listening. He wasn’t stopping. Another two guards appeared in front of him, weapons raised. He didn’t hesitate. He charged at them with a speed that caught them off guard, his movements violent and unpredictable. One man went down with a brutal punch to the jaw, the sound of cracking bones echoing through the air. The other barely had time to lift his gun before Dick grabbed his wrist and twisted, sending the weapon skittering across the ground.
A savage punch to the throat knocked the second guard out cold, and Dick barely spared a glance at the unconscious bodies as he moved forward again.
“We need to work together, Nightwing!” Bart shouted, watching the chaos unfold. His usual quick reflexes couldn’t keep up with Dick’s rampage. The intensity was suffocating, and the bloodlust in Dick’s movements was beyond anything they’d seen.
Dick was on a warpath now. Every guard that crossed his path fell—broken, beaten, and unconscious, maybe even worse. Each strike landed with a vicious precision, each one clearly wasn’t meant to incapacitate, it was to destroy. He wasn’t pulling back. There was only one goal in his mind—get to Erick.
“Get out of my way,” Dick growled, knocking another man to the ground before twisting his arm behind his back with a sickening crack. “I’m not waiting anymore.”
As they pushed forward, clearing the remaining guards with quick, calculated moves, the tension only grew. They were moving faster, but Dick? Dick was a hurricane, unstoppable, leaving mayhem in his wake.
A heavy door at the side of the warehouse swung open, and a dozen men flooded into the alley. They had seen the destruction left behind by Dick and his team, and they came prepared—guns raised, ready for the fight.
“Take them down!” one of the criminals shouted, his voice cracking with panic.
But Dick was already there, diving into the fray like a force of nature. He moved faster than they could track, knocking men aside with brutal precision. His fists collided with faces, ribs, and necks, each blow purposeful, each strike a promise of pain.
Kori soared above the chaos, her body tense as she prepared to launch a hailstorm of Starbolts at the three men below. Her eyes narrowed, locking onto her targets. But before she could fire, a blur of black and blue shot past her—Dick.
Without breaking stride, he whipped out his escrima sticks, the metal gleaming in the dim light. The first man didn’t even have time to react before Dick had closed the distance. With a flick of his wrist, one escrima stick slammed into the side of the man’s head, knocking him off balance.
Before he could hit the ground, Dick was already behind him. In a single, fluid motion, he swung his second escrima stick low, tripping the next man as he tried to charge. The impact was like a crack of thunder, sending the man sprawling to the ground.
Dick didn’t pause. He flipped his sticks effortlessly in his hands, moving in a blur of black and blue. The third man lunged, but Dick was already there, sidestepping the attack. With a quick twist of his body, his escrima sticks met the man’s ribs with a brutal thud, sending him crashing into the wall.
Kori, momentarily stunned by the speed and efficiency of Dick’s takedown, hovered above, watching the scene unfold. He had taken down all three men before she could even fire a single shot.
Dick stood over the incapacitated criminals, his escrima sticks still raised, ready for more. His eyes were cold, his breath steady, but the fury beneath his calm demeanor was undeniable. He wasn’t done. Not yet.
With a grunt, Conner stepped into the fray, his fist shooting forward. A man tried to charge him, but Conner’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him flying backward. But just as Conner prepared to keep pushing forward, Dick was already there, delivering a savage roundhouse kick that took out another two men who had been sneaking up behind him.
Cassie rushed forward, using her bracelets to deflect the spray of bullets. She raised her arm to throw a punch at two of the men, but before her fist could connect, Dick rushed passed her and taken them down. He tackled one from the side, knocking him to the ground with an elbow to the chest. Without hesitation, he grabbed the man’s head, slamming it against the concrete.
Cassie froze for a split second, watching in shock as Dick took down another guard with nothing but raw fury. She gritted her teeth and turned to Bart. “Move!”
But as Bart darted forward, Dick was already there, kicking a third man off his feet and sending him crashing into the wall. Dick swung the unconscious body of the first man he’d taken down, using it as a makeshift weapon to take out two more attackers.
“Can we get in on the action?” Bart muttered, frustration evident in his voice, but also a hint of awe at the destruction Dick is currently leaving behind.
Dick couldn’t stop. He didn't want to. He was a man possessed, every swing of his fist driven by the need to destroy, to make them pay. It was exactly what he thought he needed.
“I’m not losing her! I won't lose her! Never! Never!” Dick roared, his voice thick with fury. His movements were almost feral now, like a beast unleashed.
Then he saw him—Erick. He saw him in the crowd, standing near the back of the warehouse, trying to flee out of an emergency exit.
That was all Dick wanted. He turned, shoving a guard out of the way, and charged toward Erick with unrelenting speed.
Erick didn’t have time to react. Dick was on him in an instant, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the wall with such force that it knocked the air out of Erick’s lungs.
“I’m going to make you regret this. And enjoy every moment of it," Dick snarled, his breath coming in heavy bursts. He raised his hands, both escrima sticks gripped tightly, the metal gleaming under the harsh lights of the warehouse. But it wasn’t just the weapons that made him dangerous—it was the madness in his eyes.
Erick, still reeling from being thrown against the wall, struggled to stand, his face twisted in fear. “W-Wait—no, please! I'll give them back! I'll give them all back! Just don't-” he stammered, tears in his eyes, but his legs were shaking, unsteady.
Dick didn’t give him the chance.
The escrima sticks cut through the air like a whip, the sound sharp and merciless. The first strike came down with a force that echoed throughout the room, the metal hitting Erick’s shoulder. Erick shrieked, but Dick wasn’t done. He swung the second stick, catching him across the face that knocked him sideways.
Erick fell hard, his face twisting in agony, but Dick wasn’t waiting for him to recover. He was too far gone. Dick closed the distance, pinning Erick to the ground with a foot on his chest. His escrima sticks moved faster now, unrelenting—each blow landing with horrible cracks and snaps and crunches. He hit Erick’s ribs when they exposed. His arms when he lifted them to defend himself. His face when it was left wide open. Until the man’s body was limp beneath him, completely unrecognizable.
“Stop!” Kori shouted, rushing forward. She reached out, her hand resting on his arm, trying to pull him back from the brink. “You’re going too far!”
But it was too late. The storm had already consumed him, and washed him away where no one can save him.
“This ends now,” Dick grunted, his voice thick with anger.
With one final strike, he slammed his escrima stick into Erick’s throat, the impact cutting off the man’s last breath. For a moment, all there was silence—Dick’s heavy breathing, the faint echo of the blow ringing in the air.
Kori hovered above the scene, her heart pounding in her chest and ears so hard she couldn't think. Bart took a step back, tempted to run away from here. Conner's words were stuck in his throat, choking him, he found it difficult to breathe. Cassie felt like she was frozen in ice, unable to move and every part of her was painfully cold.
When Dick finally moved from the corpse, blood still staining his escrima sticks, he didn’t look at the team. He didn’t look at anyone. His eyes were distant, like he was looking through and past everything. As if the act of killing Erick had taken him to another place entirely—a place he didn’t want to return from.
Dick wiped the blood from his escrima sticks, his expression unreadable. “I'm done here,” he said, his voice hollow.
And with that, he walked away, leaving the wreckage of his anger behind him. The team could only watch, knowing that they had just seen a side of Dick Grayson that none of them could have anticipated.
The floor beneath you trembled. A low rumble shook through the walls, followed by the sharp crack of gunfire echoing from somewhere in the building.
Tim’s head snapped toward the door. “That’s not random,” he muttered smiling. “They’re here.”
The next explosion was closer—shattering glass, twisting metal. Dust rained from the ceiling. You both flinched as a scream echoed faintly from another room.
Tim crouched by the door, trying to peer through the small gap at the base. “We need to move before this turns into a warzone.”
He didn’t get the chance.
The lock clicked—fast. The door swung open, and Mark burst through, sweat on his brow, pistol in hand. His hair was disheveled, his shirt torn at the shoulder. He looked nothing like the arrogant man from Brooke’s story. Now, he looked desperate. Cornered.
“You’re both coming with me,” he hissed, waving the gun between you and Tim. “Now!”
Tim immediately stepped in front of you, his wrists still bound but his stance protective. “You’re out of options, Mark,” he said evenly. “You run now, you’ll be dead before you reach the main road.”
“Shut up!” Mark barked, his hand trembling. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know that Gotham's vigilantes are on your father's payroll? That’s exactly why you’re still alive!”
He lunged forward, grabbing your arm and yanking you upright.
“Let go of her!” Tim snapped, stepping forward. Mark swung the pistol toward him before settling the end of the barrel against your temple.
“I said move!” Mark’s voice cracked. “You don’t get to play the hero, Drake. I know what kind of people you employ. I saw what they're doing down there—they’re animals! And I’m not going down for his stupidity.”
Outside, the sounds of battle grew louder. The lights flickered again, the whole building trembling as another explosion rocked the floor.
Tim’s eyes flicked briefly toward the window. “If you think you can get past them with two hostages, you’re dumber than you look.”
“I don’t need to get past them,” Mark sneered. “I just need to make them stop.”
He pressed the muzzle of the pistol harder against your temple. “One move from either of you, and I swear to God—”
“Don’t,” you said sharply, cutting him off, voice steady. “You’re not in control anymore. You’re panicking, Mark. You can hear it in your own voice.”
For a second, he hesitated. The shaking in his hand grew worse as his gaze darted between you and Tim. “Y-You won’t get your way! I’ve done too much and come too far to have everything ruined! Now come quietly,” he spat, his voice cracking with desperation.
Tim gave you a quick, knowing glance, then nodded. His body tensed, his hands subtly adjusting their position behind his back, preparing for the next move.
“Fine,” Tim said. “Lead the way.”
Mark sneered, his gun still trained on you as he shoved you forward into the hallway. Tim walked beside you, not missing a beat. But his eyes were sharp, calculating—waiting for the right moment.
They moved down the narrow hall, the footsteps being the only sound in the few bursts of tense silence. The muffled explosions and gunfire outside echoed louder, growing closer, but Mark barely seemed to notice. He was too focused on maintaining the illusion of control, the gun pointed at your backs as you walked.
You and Tim took slow, careful steps, each of you aware of the building tension in the air. Mark was too distracted, too caught up in his own panic to realize how close he was to losing it all.
That’s when you heard it—a sharp, whistling sound followed by a sudden clink as something metallic collided with Mark’s hand.
His grip on the gun loosened just long enough for it to fly from his hand, skittering across the floor. Mark let out a sharp, confused gasp and spun around, but before he could react, a figure stepped out from the shadows at the end of the hallway.
He cursed, clutching his wrist. “What the—?”
Cassandra Cain—Batgirl—stood there, her posture fluid and deadly. Batgirl stood motionless, the black fabric of her full cowl absorbing the dim light. No eyes, no mouth, no expression — just that eerie, featureless mask staring him down.
“Don’t make this harder than it already is,” she said, her voice low.
That was enough to send him spiraling. With a panicked shout, Mark bolted down the hall, shoes slapping against the floor as he disappeared around the corner.
Cass didn’t move right away. She turned her head slightly toward you and Tim. “He insists on making things difficult,” she said calmly, already reaching for another Batarang. “What a shame.”
She crouched beside you, slicing through the rope binding your wrists in one swift motion, then moved to Tim, freeing him just as quickly.
When she straightened, she turned to you. “Service stairs. Two doors down on your right. Follow them to the south exit — it leads outside the fence line. Go straight down Kingsley Avenue until you see my motorcycle. Wait for me there.”
"By myself!?"
Cass rested a hand on your shoulder. "You're not going to be alone. You'll never be alone."
You hesitated, looking between her and Tim. “Okay. But what about you two?”
Tim’s jaw was set. His expression focused. “We’re going after Mark.”
Batgirl nodded once, already moving. “We won't be long.”
You swallowed hard. “Alright. Be careful.”
Tim gave you a faint, almost reassuring smile. “We will. Now go.”
As you sprinted down the hallway toward the door Batgirl had mentioned, you could already hear them moving — Batgirl’s silent, measured footsteps and Tim’s heavier, purposeful stride fading into the distance.
Somewhere ahead, Mark’s panicked voice echoed through the building. He burst through the double doors of the conference room, breath ragged and eyes wild. In one of the corners was Brooke. She sat on the floor, knees close to her chest, her red face streaked with tears, her wrists rubbed raw from the rope.
When she saw him, she froze, confusion flashing across her face.
“Mark?” she said, her voice trembling. “What’s going on? What happened—”
“Shut up,” he snapped, cutting her off as he stumbled toward her. His words were sharp, almost rabid. “You’re coming with me.”
Brooke blinked, startled. “What? Why—?”
“You’re all I’ve got left,” he hissed, grabbing her chin so hard she winced. “Your friend and that Bat freak ruined everything. Erick’s dead, the deal’s gone to hell, and now I’ve got nothing. But you?” He smiled then — a cold, trembling smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re my ticket out of this.”
Brooke shook her head, tears spilling again. “You’re insane— you’re not making it out of here! You won't get away with this!”
Mark slammed his fist down on the wall beside her, making her flinch. “I’ll make it out. I always do. Wayne’s brats might’ve slipped through my fingers, but you? You’ll buy me time and a payout since you're our parents favorite. They'll pay up. Double, no triple the amount!”
He reached for the ropes around her wrists, jerking at the knots with shaking hands. From the hallway came the faint rhythm of footsteps — two sets.
Mark froze, his head snapping toward the sound. “No… no! I'm so close. I can't let this end like this!”
The doors behind him creaked open.
Tim Drake stepped in first, calm and steady. Behind him was Batgirl — the featureless mask of her full cowl fixed on Mark like a hunting predator.
Mark’s breathing hitched. “You just don’t quit, do you?” he spat, shoving Brooke’s chair toward them. “I’ll take her instead! You and that little bitch sister can go where ever the hell you want! I don't care!”
In one silent blur, she threw a Batarang. It cut through the air with surgical precision, embedding itself in his shoulder. Pain blew up his face; his fingers clawed at the embedded metal, blood beading where it had become one with his shoulder. His grip on Brooke faltered—then broke completely.
Brooke bolted, stumbling away from him in blind panic. She ran straight toward the one person who seemed untouchable in all this chaos.
Brooke’s breath hitched as she clung to Batgirl’s armor. Behind them, Mark writhed against the wall, one hand pressed to his shoulder as blood seeped between his fingers.
Batgirl caught her effortlessly, steady and solid as stone. One arm came around Brooke’s shoulders, keeping her upright while her masked face never once turned from Mark. Tim cut her restraints, finally freeing her.
“Hey, hey—look at me,” he said softly, cupping her face in both hands. Her breathing was erratic, eyes glassy with shock. “You’re okay. You’re free now.”
Brooke’s lip trembled. “I—I didn’t know what to do. He said—”
“I know,” Tim cut in gently, his tone firm but kind. “You don’t have to explain anything right now. Just listen.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, forcing her to focus on him. “I need you to go. [Name] should be there already. Wait together, okay?”
She nodded weakly, tears spilling over. “What about you?”
Tim’s faint smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ve got something to finish.”
Batgirl gave a sharp tilt of her head toward the far end of the hall. “Service exit, two doors down, go down Kingsley Avenue,” she told her. “Move fast and don’t look back.”
Brooke didn’t hesitate. She ran fast, her footsteps echoing down the hallway until they vanished entirely.
And then it was just them.
Tim.
Cass.
And Mark — slumped against the wall, one hand pulling the Batarang from his shoulder. His teeth bared in a mix of pain and fury as his blood splattered in front of him.
“This is it." Batgirl said coldly. "You took someone I love. You hurt them. You will pay for it."
Tim stepped forward, eyes locked on Mark. “We were going to make this, just to be nice. But you calling my sister a bitch…that right there, just killed any mercy we had for you.”
Mark backed up against the wall, one hand still trying uselessly to staunch the pain in his shoulder. His eyes darted like a trapped animals', looking for an exit that wasn’t there. “You don’t understand—” he tried, voice wet with fear.
Tim didn’t answer. The words inside him had hardened into something he could no longer swallow. Having you being frightened and humiliated for a fast buck tightened in his chest and became motion.
Cassie stepped forward beside him. She didn’t speak. There was no need. The line between what had to be done and what should be forgiven had been erased the moment Mark chose to sell you like livestock.
They moved together like a pair of inevitabilities. Tim struck first: a hard, controlled blow that sent Mark stumbling into the desk. It was not a killing blow. It was an instrument of retribution, and Mark’s scream cut through the corridor.
Cassie followed, not just with pleasure but with a grim purpose. Her strikes were businesslike and practiced. Meant to disable, to break whatever desperate will kept him standing. They hit with the kind of certainty that comes from training, from knowing where a man’s balance ends and his compliance begins.
Mark swung wildly, desperate to keep his attackers at bay. His movements were sloppy, driven by panic more than intent.
Tim ducked beneath the blow and came up fast — a sharp strike to Mark’s ribs that sent him staggering backward. Before he could recover, Cass was there, moving like liquid shadow. Her fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head sideways and sending him crashing into the wall.
He bounced off it with a groan, only to find Tim already there.
A punch, fast and surgical, landed across his temple. Mark lurched the other way, straight into Cass’s heel as she pivoted and drove a kick into his stomach. The force folded him forward, the breath leaving him in a wheeze.
Tim didn’t let him fall. He caught him by the collar, slammed him upright, and threw him toward Cass again — the rhythm of their movements perfectly in sync, brutal and practiced. Cass struck his face with an elbow, spinning him around, and Tim answered with a knee to his back. Mark’s body ricocheted between them like a ragdoll caught in a storm. A twisted round of tennis, Tim and Cass are the players, and Mark is the ball.
Tim’s jaw was tight, his expression unreadable — but his eyes burned with the kind of fury that came from fear turned into vengeance. Cass, silent as ever, was the storm’s other half — graceful, efficient, deadly. The two of them moved like a single force.
Mark tried to raise his arms in defense, but Cass swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. Tim was already there, lifting him up by his hair until he was on his knees.
“This,” Tim said through his teeth, “is for her.”
Mark choked out something that might’ve been a plea, but Cass was already in motion again. One swift kick to the temple The kind that ended things.
Mark hit the wall one last time. His head slumped forward, body slack. The air hung heavy, punctuated only by the sound of Tim’s harsh, unsteady breathing.
For a long second, neither of them moved.
Then Cass straightened, eyes on the lifeless heap in front of them. She exhaled slowly through her nose, shaking out her hands. Tim stayed crouched for a moment longer, staring down, the fury in him cooling into something quieter — pure exhaustion.
“It’s over,” Cass said finally, her voice soft but certain.
Tim didn’t respond right away. When he did, it was barely above a whisper. “No. Not yet.”
He stood, the tension in his shoulders sharp as steel. “We still have to get them home.”
Cass nodded once. Together, they turned from the body and stepped back into the hallway — two silhouettes fading into the darkness.
Jason crouched on the rooftop overlooking the warehouse a few blocks away. The warehouse sat half-swallowed by fog and neon, a low hum of bad light leaking through gaps in boarded windows. He’d watched the comings and goings, the men who never looked anyone in the eye, and the courier who ducked in with a crate and left with cash. He'd counted the exits and timed the guard rotations. David’s little empire had patterns, but his patterns had weak points.
He chambered a round, eyes narrowing. “Alright, David. Let’s finish this. little game.”
That was when the sound hit him — low, mechanical thunder rolling through the fog.
Jason frowned. “No way…”
The Batmobile burst from the alley like an angry myth, tires shrieking as it swung into a perfect drift and slammed to a stop across the street. Its lights cut through the mist, harsh and surgical. Jason blinked, incredulous.
The driver’s hatch opened — and out stepped a kid barely tall enough to reach the steering wheel.
“Unbelievable,” Jason muttered. “Of course it’s him.”
Damian Wayne — ten years old, masked face set in a scowl sharp enough to cut glass, cape fluttering like he owned the night. Jason hopped down from the rooftop and walked toward the young boy, calm as a soldier.
Damian only glared at him through his domino mask. “You’re sloppy,” he said. “The south entrance has a blind spot, but you’re wasting time up here.”
Jason ran a hand down his masked face. “You have got to be kidding me. Does Bruce know you hijacked the damn Batmobile?”
“Father knows what’s important,” Damian replied defiantly. “You’re tracking David to get revenge for him putting [Name] in danger. So am I.”
Jason barked a humorless laugh. “You should be tracking bedtime, kid. Go home before you get grounded out of existence.”
Damian ignored him completely, already scanning the guards coming and going with that calculating gaze that was all too familiar. “They’re moving crates. The product is volatile — some of its chemical, some ballistic. If we detonate it, the whole block goes up.”
"Yeah no shit. I know all about what's going on here. Tim gave me David's location and a pretty damn big push to finish this. Tonight." It sounded simple and straightforward, but this isn't like any of Jason's other jobs. This was personal. And he won't let anyone get in his way and distract him.
Jason’s next set of words coming out harder than he intended. He kept his voice low—too many ears, too many triggers. “Listen. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. This isn’t some fun little field trip you can join. This is serious. This is personal to me."
Damian’s response was flat, with measured defiance. “You’re brittle tonight. You’ll snap if you keep going solo. Like I said, you’ll get sloppy. And I don’t like sloppy.”
For a beat Jason wanted to tell him to go back to the cave, and practice scowling in a mirror. Instead he watched the kid’s face—the same relentless calm that made people underestimate him until it was too late. Damian wasn’t mouthing bravado.
"I have a reason to be here. But why are you here? This doesn't have anything to do with you. But you came here without Bruce, in the Batmobile. Clearly you're on a mission."
Damian didn’t flinch. The glow from a streetlight caught along the edge of his cowl.
“I’m here because this does have something to do with me,” Damian’s tone was calm, but there was a flicker of something beneath it, guilt, anger, maybe both. “You’re going after David — the man who supplied the chemicals used in [Name]’s kidnapping. He’s one of the reasons she was taken. Father would’ve stopped me. He’s wasting time planning, talking, waiting. I'm not waiting. I want to finish things.”
Jason gave a low, mirthless chuckle. “Yeah, you’ve got that in common with me. Only difference is, I don’t answer to anyone. You? You’re still ten.”
Damian crossed his arms, chin lifting slightly. “And you’re still reckless.”
That earned a sharp snort from Jason. “Takes one to know one.”
The air between them settled into a tense quiet, with mutual irritation, and mutual respect simmering just below the surface. Jason's eyes flicking toward the warehouse again. “Fine. You’re already here, and you’re not leaving, are you?”
“No,” Damian said simply. “You’ll need me.”
Jason smirked, dark and a little proud despite himself. “Cute. Just don’t slow me down.”
“I’d worry more about keeping up.”
Jason didn’t even get to argue before Damian ran toward the warehouse. No hesitation. No backup plan. Just pure, reckless confidence — a ten-year-old missile in a cape charging straight into enemy territory.
“Unbelievable,” Jason muttered running behind Damian. He drew his pistols mid-stride, chambering rounds with a metallic click that cut through the night.
By the time Jason reached the side entrance, Damian was already inside. The sound of motion echoed from within—sharp, clean, surgical. Jason pushed through the door and found two guards on the ground, motionless. Damian stood above them, katana drawn, the blade slick with blood under the dim industrial light.
“Couldn’t wait thirty seconds, could you?” Jason growled.
Damian didn’t look up. “They saw me.”
Jason stepped over a stream of blood from one of the bodies. “You could’ve let them see you. Fear’s one hell of a weapon.”
“I prefer results.”
Jason smiled beneath his helmet. “Oh trust me. You'll learn that weaponizing both gets you the best result.”
They move like a single shadow through the belly of the warehouse, two silhouettes slipping between crates stamped with DIVIAN INDUSTRIES. Every sound is amplified — the creak of a pallet, the hiss of a generator, the soft, meaningless laugh of men who don’t know the night has already turned against them.
“Two at the fork,” Jason whispers, scanning with a practiced sweep. He draws both pistols, the motion fluid, sure. A grin ghosts under the visor — this is the confrontation he wants.
Damian answers with a tilt of his head and drops low. He moves with that terrible, neat economy of motion: no wasted steps, no flourish. The katana appears in a blur. The first grunt turns at the sound of a falling crate and never sees the edge of steel. He goes to the floor bloody and silent.
Jason is already covering the other. A precise shot cracks through the space between pallet and shadow; the man’s rifle disengages from his fingers and clatters, useless. He slumps against a crate.
And they don’t slow down. They don’t need words. Their choreography tightens with every room. They move through squads the way tornado move through houses: inevitable and destructive, bending everything to their will.
A group tries to flank them in a narrow corridor. Damian feints left, slicing a path that makes the first two drop their weapons to clutch at bleeding arms; Jason flows behind, headshots taken without flourish, each pull of the trigger measured to stop, not to indulge. When one man tries to run, only for Damian’s katana to bisect the man on his way to the exit, a quiet "no" spoken by steel.
Every person they take down, every drop of blood sprayed and spilled, removes a private weight from both of them. They are not gleeful. There is no pleasure in the end — only a blunt satisfaction, the kind that comes from righting a ledger that’s slipped too far out of balance. Each time they clear a room, they glance at each other in that microsecond where the world is soft and the danger has been smacked down. The looks are brief and unreadable: an acknowledgment.
They find themselves in a choke point where men cluster around thermal-wracked barrels and a flickering work lamp. It should be three on one — odds in the goons’ favor — but those odds dissolve when Jason fires and Damian closes. Jason pops two quick rounds into a man who tries to pull a grenade; the throw never comes. Damian’s blade catches a second attacker as he dives for cover; the man pitches forward and stays down. A third lunges with a pipe; Jason’s elbow breaks his balance, and a clean shot ends the charge.
Soon they encounter a corridor opened into a fork — one path leading deeper into the shipping bays, the other climbing to the mezzanine offices above. Shouts echoed from both directions, the sound of boots and metal, of weapons being drawn in panic.
Jason glanced at Damian. “You wanna take high ground or floor?”
Damian’s eyes flicked toward the stairs. “High ground is fine. I’ll clean the rafters.”
Jason grinned, switching from his pistols to a hunting knife strapped to his thigh. “Fine by me. I’ll handle the welcoming committee.”
They broke apart without another word.
Damian darted up the stairs two steps at a time, his cape snapping behind him like a banner. The warehouse catwalks stretched across the ceiling — a maze of metal and shadow, perfect for a predator.
Three men patrolled the upper level, lazily keeping watch. They never saw him coming. Damian vaulted onto the railing, balanced perfectly, and dropped behind the first with surgical precision. The katana slashed at the man's achilles, as his body crumpled Damian lifted him over the guard rail, letting the concrete below finish him off.
The second turned, too slow. Damian pivoted, slamming a kick into his chest that sent him sprawling into a railing, allowing Damian to plunge his katana into his chest from above.
The third man tried to retreat down the stairs, shouting for backup. Damian followed, using the narrow rails like stepping stones. He moved like something that shouldn’t exist. Completely unstoppable. The man reached the stairs just as Damian landed behind him. The hilt of the katana struck his temple, and the man fell down the stairs. His head hitting everything on the way down.
For a moment, Damian stood still. His breathing steady. His grip sure. Every motion had purpose. No hesitation. Certainly no remorse. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The vision of you and him in the manors garden together flashed in his mind. Just you two talking and laughing, completely at ease and at peace. A soft smile graced his face when he opened his eyes.
He looked down at the warehouse floor below, hearing gunfire, the rough sound of fists.
On the ground level, Jason moved through the aisles like a force of nature. His guns were holstered; this wasn’t about distance.
A grunt lunged at him with a crowbar. Jason sidestepped, grabbed the man’s wrist, and twisted hard enough to break the man's wrist . The handle clattered uselessly. Jason’s hunting knife slashed at the man's neck, dropping him to the floor as he tried to stop the bleeding.
Another came from behind. Jason spun, and drove a boot into the guy’s chest, sending him into a stack of crates. The tower came down and crushed the man. A third swung a pipe; Jason ducked low, cut his chest upward, then followed with a brutal elbow that sent the attacker sprawling.
This was muscle memory, a language written in strikes and blocks. When one guard tried to fire from a distance, Jason closed the space in seconds, kicking the riffle barrel causing the bullets to shoot into the ceiling. Jason grabbed his assailant by the face and cracked his skull open on the wall. The body leaving a streak of blood as it crumpled to the ground.
He exhaled, short and sharp, checking corners as he moved. "Almost done," Jason muttered. "Just a little longer [Name]. I won't let anyone hurt you. Never again."
The sound of Damian above — metal creaks, faint impacts — told him the kid was keeping pace.
A ladder clanged behind him. Damian slid down, landing silently beside Jason. His blade glinted with the dull reflection of the warehouse lights.
Jason wiped his knife on his sleeve and smirked. “Not bad for a kid who still gets grounded.”
Damian smirked up at him. "Not bad for a man that needs to be."
Jason barked a laugh, like there wasn't any carnage surrounding them.
For a second, they just looked at each other — two soldiers standing in a quiet battlefield. They both knew what the other had done, all of the lines they’d crossed.
Jason finally spoke, low and even. “You know they’ll hate us for this if they find out, right?”
Damian gave the faintest shrug. “They’ll never understand.”
Jason gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. But we do.”
"And honestly, that's all that matters."
Jason clapped Damian once on the shoulder, the gesture short but genuine. “Come on.”
And together, they moved deeper into the warehouse — a deadly symmetry of red and black, gun and blade, brother and brother — cutting a clean path toward David’s office and the final reckoning that waited upstairs.
Room after room, the pattern repeats. Strikes that disable the subject’s ability to continue, shots that end the threat instantly. There are no dramatic monologues, no time for internal debates about consequence. Tonight they’re executioners and execution is what the job requires.
Between engagements, they move in that silent sync — one watches a doorway while the other rips through a line of targets; one covers an exit while the other clears the back rows. They grow more bold, more trusting. Jason starts taking risks he wouldn’t alone. Damian steps into kill zones he’d never have entered without Jason’s suppressing fire. Jason begins to time his shots to the exact moment Damian’s blade carves a path. It’s an ugly ballet, only elegant in how effective it is.
They both imagine, at some edge of their rage, their families' reaction — disapproval, lectures, the long, inevitable cleaning up. They don’t care. Not tonight.
By the time the building is cleared and the stairwell sits before them. The warehouse is now a rearranged map of motionless bodies. Still they climb. The job still isn't done. Each step creaks, each breath is measured, but there’s still that working tempo between them. Foot, foot, strike; step, step, shot. In the main office, their final target waits. David bent over his ledger with a thick black marker, a last, ridiculous attempt to hide the names.
They don’t talk as they enter. There’s no need. Damian’s katana draws like a sentence, Jason’s pistols rise like punctuation. When David looks up, the terror in his eyes is immediate and complete — ultimate payment arriving twice over: steel and lead.
When it’s done and the ledger is in Jason’s hands, the look between them is not triumph so much as a shared, terrible agreement. They did not leave survivors tonight, that wasn't the plan. They both knew that before the first body hit the floor, and that knowledge is a bond.
Damian sheaths the katana slowly, his motion calm, almost ritual. Jason’s breath is even, his grin muted now into a hard line. Both of them feel the aftertaste of it — a little pleasure, a ton of relief, and the steadying cold of having done what they decided needed doing.
Jason nodded once toward the back door. “Let’s go home.”
They pushed through the exit. The night air hit them like a slap. Jason stepped out first, guns still in hand, scanning the perimeter. “We’re clear,” he muttered—then stopped.
Bodies.
At least two dozen men lay sprawled across the loading dock and the cracked asphalt beyond. A bullet was the executioner, every head shot was clean.
Jason’s head tilted slightly. “These… aren't mine.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed, scanning the pattern. “They aren't mines either.”
Jason’s gaze lifted to the ridge of the old water tower across the lot. A faint silhouette stood there, framed by the moonlight.
“Oh shit,” Jason muttered.
The figure shifted, climbing down the ladder with an ease that only came from decades of training. Jason and Damian sprinted to the tower. A few minutes later when they reached it, Alfred Pennyworth emerged from the shadows, trench coat brushing his legs, sniper rifle balanced casually in his grip.
He looked immaculate, as always. Not a drop of sweat. Just quiet purpose and the look of a man who’d seen far worse and still kept the kettle warm at home.
“Gentlemen,” Alfred said, voice smooth, unhurried. “I was under the impression you might require assistance.”
Jason blinked behind his visor. “You—how the hell—”
“I was in the Batcave when Master Damian decided to rebel and take the Batmobile,” Alfred interrupted mildly, inspecting the rifle before tucking it under his arm. “I must confess, I too couldn't stand idly by and let these untrained animals get away with what they've done.”
Damian straightened slightly, pride flickering through his composure. “So you chose followed me? Instead of going with Tim. He's with [Name] right now.”
“I trust Master Tim to take care of Miss [Name],” Alfred corrected gently. “I wanted to make sure you two didn't get too reckless.”
Jason gave a low, incredulous chuckle. “You took out the reinforcements by yourself? How did it feel? Nostalgic?”
Alfred’s lips twitched. “All I can say is old habits die hard, Master Jason.” His tone softened, though his gaze stayed hard. “And I trust you both ensured there are no survivors within?”
Neither of them answered immediately. Jason’s silence said enough. Damian’s calm did the rest.
Alfred regarded them for a moment — not angry, not even surprised. Just quietly understanding in that way only he could be. “Then I suggest we make ourselves scarce before the authorities arrive.”
Jason let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief. “You’re something else, Alfie.”
“Indeed,” Alfred smiled, adjusting his cuffs as if the sniper rifle were a mere accessory.
Jason glanced at Damian, who for once didn’t argue.
They each went their separate ways to their own vehicles, leaving behind the ruin of David’s empire and the quiet graveyard of men who’d made the mistake of aligning with trash and standing in their way.
For the first time that night, Jason felt something strange stirring — absolutely no guilt, a ton of pride, and the faint, surprising warmth of respect. Not just for Alfred. But Damian as well.
The three of them disappeared into the darkness — the soldier, the heir, and the butler.
The Batcave hummed with quiet machinery. The glow from the massive screens bathed everything in cold light.
Barbara leaned forward over the console, watching the live feeds flicker across the screens. Some from hacked security camera's, some from drones hovering over multiple separate scenes. One above a warehouse outside Gotham’s limits, another circling another warehouse her Central City's outskirts.
Barbara’s fingers danced over her keyboard from her workstation off to the side. “They didn’t just hit the operation,” she said. “They erased it. Entirely. No survivors.” Her voice wavered, just slightly, as the drone feed zoomed in on the wreckage.
Stephanie sat in a chair next to Barbara, her legs propped up on an empty spot on the desk. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, a stubborn scowl pulling at her mouth.
“This is the worst,” she muttered. “I should have been there too! But nooo, I had to be here, doing absolutely nothing! I’m not even suited up!”
Barbara chuckled softly while continuing to type, the soft click of keys filling the air. “Funny. I thought you were on a silent strike. You know, ‘No missions, no words’ — your dramatic protest about Bruce’s leadership style.”
Steph’s glare softened into a pout. “I changed it. Now it’s just the classic silent treatment. It’s more effective and way less exhausting.”
Barbara grinned. “Ah, so you’re evolving.”
“Yup,” Steph said with mock pride. “It’s called emotional growth.”
The playful tone faded as another live feed shifted onto the main screen — a shot of the warehouse where Jason and Damian had been. The drones picked up the footage of the Batmobile retreating down the street.
Behind them, the heavy tread of boots echoed off the cave’s stone floor. Bruce descended from the upper walkway, his cape trailing behind him like a shadow that had forgotten how to stop moving. He came to a halt between the two women, eyes on the screens — on the chaos his family had left behind.
Barbara tilted her head toward him. “So, Bruce? What are you gonna do about your kids?”
Bruce didn’t answer. The glow from the monitors painted his face in shifting light.
Barbara leaned back in her chair, studying him carefully. “They crossed multiple lines tonight. You know that.”
Bruce reached across the console, picked up a chipped black #1 Dad mug, the only one he uses for calming herbal teas before he went to bed. Bruce glanced inside the mug before letting out a short grunt. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the exit tunnel that led to the mansion above.
“Don’t stay up too late,” he mumbled — not in the disappointed father way they expected, but in the tone of a CEO who’d just survived the world’s longest board meeting.
The echo of his footsteps faded into the distance, swallowed by the hum of the Batcave.
"Um…," Barbara blinked, eyebrows shooting up. “I-Is that it?”
“Yeah,” Steph said, still staring after him. “I guess so?”
Barbara swiveled in her chair to fully face the empty tunnel entrance. “Normally he’d stay up until everyone got back—lecture, interrogation, emotional guilt trip, the works.”
Steph threw up her hands. “I know I'm ignoring him for not letting me go, but I was emotionally prepared for…something! I don't know what, but not going upstairs to make some damn tea and go to bed.”
Barbara exhaled through her nose, leaning back in her chair. “Either he’s hit his limit… or he’s planning to handle this in a way none of us are ready for.”
Steph crossed her arms with a groan. “Great. So he’s calm now—which means we’re all doomed later.”
The two sat in uneasy silence, the glow of the monitors flickering across their faces. Somewhere above, they could almost picture Bruce in the quiet kitchen, standing alone, waiting for his tea kettle to whistle — calm on the outside, a storm building beneath the surface. Everyone will just have to wait and see what happens.
Okay okay! This is the first time I did an action scene this gritty. I tried to not make it gory or over indulgent on the violence, but make it for story telling. I'm happy with how it turned out and would love some feedback if you're willing to give it. Just make it constructive please!
